Just a short post today, posing the following question: Where the heck is John Kerry? No photo-ops, follow-up stories, nothing. Main stream media silence. Administration mum on the subject. Sorry, but I think there is a concerted effort at hiding the real story. Some news opinions have come out of Europe, but nothing here in the USA. That along with the various bomb threats here in the homeland, and even at The White House, makes me think things are much worse than the government is admitting.

Sammy

Several years ago, I blogged about my brother's dog, Sammy, and an adventure we had. Sadly, Sammy passed away today and he will be sorely missed. He spent a vacation week with me last week, and seemed fine while he was here. I am reposting my piece from 2008 in memory of Sammy. Personal Commentary My Friend Sammy Since I've been holed up in my house writing for two days, I was determined to be outdoors today. The weather was perfect - low 70's and sunny - and I was missing it all. I called my sister-in-law to see if I could borrow Sammy, their elder dog. She said yes and added that Sammy loves to go in the car. I went to pick him up (I swear the dog is psychic - how did he know I was coming to take him somewhere? He ran right to my car and stood there til I opened the door) and off we went to Northmoreland Park. This is where I normally fish, though I haven't done any fishing lately, either. As soon as we arrived, Sammy was more than anxious to get out. My niece told me before we left to be careful because as soon as the door opened, he would jump out and take off. Sure enough, he pushed between me and the steering wheel before I could get the leash on. I pulled the door shut just in time, got the leash on, opened the door again, and out Sammy went. The leash wasn't too long, so out I went, as well, onto the concrete parking lot. The door shut with my car keys and cell phone inside! Although it wasn't completely shut, I couldn't open it, either. A half-locked door. I could see the darn keys hanging in the ignition, so near yet so far. I thought that we'd take our walk first and figure it all out afterwards. This is my Scarlett O'Hara persona. The brick paver path is 1.1 miles long, and is a lovely and fairly easy walk. Sammy was a happy little dog, smiling at everyone and wagging his tail. One lady said, "What a happy little mutt that is!" Sammy just smiled and looked back at me to see if I heard that. He was very obedient, didn't chase any other dogs, geese or ducks. Didn't growl or bark at anyone. When we finished and went back to my car, he stood there facing the door and looked back over his shoulder at me, as if to say, "Come o-n-n-n-n-n already!". Now I had to find a way to get the car open. I saw some fishermen nearby so we walked over to them and I asked if anyone had a coat hanger I could borrow? No one did, but they all came to my car to check it out. Another guy in the vehicle parked next to mine offered a pipe wrench to break the window. (*Gee, thanks, but no thanks!") Pretty soon, there were about twelve guys standing around my car! I asked, "Where are all the car thieves when you need them?" Everyone laughed, especially the teens. One of the guys divulged the info that he owns a used car dealership and has to get into cars almost every day. He just happened to have a broken fishing pole (I have one, too -- in the trunk of the car, along with a coat hanger). While one teenager held a tree branch between the door and roof of the car, the used car guy was able to hook the car keys, but they fell off the rod onto the floor before he could bring them out. He kept trying, and finally pushed the manual lock open and voila! The door opened. Sammy couldn't have jumped into the car any faster. He sat there looking at me as if he was saying, "What are you waiting for?" I thanked everyone and off we went. Sammy was happy when we reached his home! I may ask to take him out again one day, but he may refuse. He is good company, though. My niece told me before we left that walking with a dog is a good way to meet men. Yup, it sure was! But they were all teens or married. Just my luck! Previously published on Google Blogspot by Suellen McCollim, August 10, 2008

Right Brain Drawing

When I drew the accompanying artwork (pencil on paper, about 19" x 28"), I had been thinking about how nature always attempts to take back what man and time and progress have altered. As always, I start by making a mark on the paper, usually somewhere left of center, and make the magical switch from the logical left brain to the subconscious right. When drawing this way, I never begin by thinking about what I am drawing. It is only after the drawing is finished that I can back off and view it for what it is. Frequently, I can see the influence of something I have been pondering or something I have read. Studying a lot of art history helps to inform my drawings, I am sure. The bottom line, however, is the interpretation of its subsequent viewers. Once the artist creates the art and shows it to another person, the intention of the artist no longer has much importance (unless the artist is a master and studied intensively by art historians and critics).

My Grandmother and the Orangutan

My grandmother, a very petite and attractive lady, was in her sixties when I came into the world. She was born on a farm in Armstrong County, PA, in 1880 into a very large and poor family. She managed to attend school through the eighth grade, and because she was a bright and excellent student, was permitted to teach in that one-room school house after she "graduated". I recall her telling me that she wrote poetry, though unfortunately, I never found any examples after she passed. What I distinctly recall was her penchant for correct spelling and grammar, and had computers existed when she was alive, she would have been one of the original "grammar police" so many detest. I can say as I went through school, my grandmother's determination that I should speak and write properly, not only was a great help but also set me up as a future "grammar cop", too. She also taught me that ladies do not raise their voices, but maintain a ladylike decorum at all times, and that probably wasn't a good thing for me. Mimmi, as everyone called her, was a woman who led an interesting life. She was married twice, and the first marriage ended in divorce-a rare occurrence at the beginning of the twentieth century. Her first husband worked in the oil fields in Vincennes, Indiana, and earned a lot of money which he spent lavishly on his beautiful wife. He gave her jewelry and fur coats, as well as two sons. Unfortunately, he also had a weakness for alcohol, and periodically would go on a "bender". When he ran out of money during his drunken binges, he would gather those expensive gifts and sell them for the cash he needed to purchase booze. My grandmother soon tired of his behavior, and after he came home drunk one night and passed out on the bed, my tiny grandmother tied his hands and legs to the bed. She waited until he awakened the next morning and literally beat him with a broom, took her two sons and the few belongings she could carry, and returned to Pennsylvania. For a time, she lived with and worked for a sister who owned a boarding house in West Virginia. The story goes that she eventually also operated a boarding house in Pennsylvania, and that is where she met and married my grandfather. Together, they had one son, my father. My grandfather was a plasterer, just like his Irish father and grandfather before him, and he built a very nice Craftsman-style home for them. Eventually, he joined the police department, and that is how I remember him. He was a good man and a good provider, though I often wondered how my grandmother was able to dress as fashionably as she did. I will never know. Perhaps because she was an avid canner of fruits and vegetables and was able to save the family a lot of money. You are probably wondering about the title of this piece, so I will end with the story of my grandmother and the orangutan. My grandparents often traveled with us to various venues around the greater Pittsburgh area. One summer, we all went to the Pittsburgh Zoo, and were having a grand time visiting all the exotic animals. My grandmother, dressed to the nines, had been making fun of all the primates. When we approached the outdoor pen of the zoo's only orangutan, she approached the bars and began to make faces at him. As she pointed at him, giving him the raspberries and laughing, he suddenly retaliated, with a remarkably accurate aim, by spitting at her. The spittle struck her directly in the face. It was one of those moments I have never forgotten. My grandfather pulled his hankerchief from his pocket and wiped her face with it while the rest of us struggled with conflicting emotions: wanting to cheer for the orangutan, trying to keep from laughing at the surprise and pure comedic nature of the moment, and feeling acutely embarrassed at the entire episode. I have attached a pencil portrait I drew from an old photograph of my grandmother with her sisters. She was about forty years old in the 1920 photo, and this would have been the year she first was permitted to vote.

Corrections on Art Websites

If you are reading some of my older posts and see references to other sites where my artwork can be viewed, at this time there is only one site to view. http://www.facebook.com/portraitsbysuellenmccollim

Comparing Neil Young to Contemporary Artists

While watching Showtime's Neil Young "Band of Gold" documentary/concert, I began to consider how true artists, be they musicians, writers, or visual artists, develop their voices in much the same way. For Neil Young, the signature style combining original lyrics with very similar melodies and his so familiar vocals, are very comparable to contemporary artists such as Robert Rauschenberg, Cy Twombly, Jasper Johns, Amselm Kiefer, or the original original, Marcel Duchamp. Each of the latter developed their repertoire over many years of experimentation, study, and listening to their own internal, informed knowing. It doesn't come easily, certainly, but some find their way early in life and continue to develop. Others study and learn and practice for years, and see their own style when they are mature and look back over years of production. I suspect Neil Young's life was charmed in so far as he found early fame. What I especially respect in his case is that despite many forays into experiences that could have destroyed him, he kept his "eye on the sparrow" and kept his lyrics honest and simple. His heart is displayed in his music for all the world to hear, and one must be fearless to do that. Just singing or playing music written by someone else isn't the same (excepting his version of Four Strong Winds), just as copy-work by artists isn't the same as the work produced from the subconscious and informed by knowledge. Granted, Neil Young isn't John Cage, but he is an artist for the people, regardless. Personally, I particularly enjoy seeing how all the colors, notes, words, and lines come together into a cohesive and readily recognizable body of work. I am beginning to see some of that in my own work, though I certainly do not expect to ever be comparable to the greats!

Left to right: Robert Rauschenberg, Monogram; Neil Young.

Spare the Rod and Teach a Lesson

Psychologists and educators have debated for years about the most effective ways to mete out punishment to youngsters.  A man who operated a couple of businesses in our rural neighborhood had the best solution to correct the errant behaviors of  two teenagers, one of them my own.

One Sunday afternoon in the middle of winter, when about 3 inches of snow covered the fields and lay beneath the trees in the woods, my son Todd asked if he could go to visit a neighboring friend.  "Yes, but be home in time for dinner," I said, knowing I probably didn't need to give him a time because he was fifteen and growing and mealtime was very important to him.  Indeed, he was home by dark and before dinner.

The next day, I was talking with a friend and gazing at the scenery from the sliding glass doors in my dining room when I saw a man emerge from the woods down at the bottom of the steep hill behind our house.  He walked slowly, with his head down, and as he walked, I could see he was headed in my direction.  I told my friend, and when the man was obviously approaching my house, I hung up the phone.  I didn't recognize him, and frankly, I was alarmed by this stranger who came from the woods. When I heard him ring the doorbell, I decided not to answer the door because I was home alone.

He left, and I watched him travel back down the hill until he disappeared into the woods. I wasn't able to see his face, so I still didn't know who he was.

That evening, after dinner, the doorbell rang and when I opened the door, I recognized the visitor, Bill, and asked him inside.  He said he knew we had a son, and wondered if he had been home all day Sunday.  I said, "No, he went to a neighbor's house in the afternoon.  Why?"

"Is he home now?  I would like to speak with him."

My husband called Todd to come to the living room, and when he did, Bill said he followed tracks in the snow from his junkyard to our house, and that is why he was here now.  Todd looked alarmed (a mother can always tell guilt when she sees it on the face of one of her children).

Bill asked Todd if the boys took guns to the junkyard, and Todd said they had.

"You took a gun outside without permission?" my husband asked Todd before turning back to Bill and asking, "What did they do?"

My son hung his head and I knew the boys had done something very wrong.

"I collect antique Cadillacs and store them at the junkyard," Bill said, "and yesterday, every single one of them had the windows shot out."

We gasped, because it was difficult to imagine our son, who had never been in trouble, would do something so destructive.  My husband asked Bill what we could do to correct the damage, and how much would it cost. This was a concern for us, with four children, a large house payment, and one income.

Bill paused, and then said, "Well, I've been thinking about that. The damage is in the hundreds of dollars.  I know it would be a hardship for you to pay that, and it wasn't you who caused the damage, after all. I have thought of a solution.  I will go and see the other boy's parents after I leave here, and present them with the same plan.

"I want both of the boys to come to my house every Saturday morning for a couple of months and I will assign jobs for them to do in order to work off their debt. Don't worry about packing a lunch for Todd, because I will provide lunch."

Todd, ashamed of his wrongdoing, agreed with Bill's plan, though he knew he hadn't any choice.  My husband told Todd to get his rifle and bring it to us.  When Todd handed the rifle over, my husband said, "You will not get this gun back for a year.  No hunting, no target shooting. You now do not have a rifle or access to any gun for a year."

Thus began one of the most important learning experiences of Todd's young life.  Bill taught a lesson that any amount of money couldn't have done, and my husband backed him up.  When the boys worked for him around his home and junkyard, they were not only paying off their debt, but they were privileged to hear many wise words and life lessons from Bill.  I have felt grateful to him ever since, though he has long ago gone to his eternal rest. My son never got into trouble again.

All I can say is that the lesson Todd learned has served him well, and today he is the father of two fine sons and I assume he metes out punishment with the same kind of wisdom and kindness as Bill did.