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.

Our Plastic Culture

"Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your God gives you".   The New American Standard Bible, Exodus 20:12.  

Although I have never liked the generalizations that have been embedded into our collective consciousness via jokes about the maladies of aging, today people have turned those generalizations into their personal beliefs about senior citizens. Of course, they seem not to have the foresight to understand that, should they live long enough, the very deficits they make fun of in the old will be the same ones they themselves will experience on the most personal basis.

In most cultures, the aged are revered for their wisdom, perseverance, skills, talents, and knowledge. Today, in the United States of America, the elderly are pushed aside as useless and unattractive consumers of those things the young think only they deserve. The old are marginalized, especially if they are single females. They are placed in nursing homes or senior housing, rather than taken care of by their family members. The elderly are still, in this age touted as the most evolved ever, the butt of many jokes, some of which are cruel at best.

Our culture is obsessed with youth, and cosmetic surgery is seen as a way to escape the now dreaded wrinkles and sags of old age. The plastic culture reigns and women are offered breast lifts, butt lifts, botox injections, face lifts, and liposuction as ways to look younger. Young women are enticed to have breast enhancements or reductions and to purchase expensive wrinkle prevention creams. Aging men are encouraged to take erectile dysfunction medications to enhance virile performance and in the process, often incur serious health risks. Young men are told they must shave the hair from their bodies to be attractive to women.

Americans seem to be living in a pipe dream. The young are enthralled with pop icons and attempt to emulate those icons in every possible way, and although this has always been common for teens, it seems to be continuing longer than it once did. We have a Peter Pan mentality that doesn't permit people to age. How unreal and absurd is that? Plastic isn't real and isn't even possible for most seniors who not only cannot afford surgeries and expensive creams, but have a belief system that values the real over the phony.

The admonition from the Ten Commandments is valuable not only for aging parents, but also for the soundness of their children's souls.

A Rose By Any Other Name is Still a Rose

I propose the following descriptive names be changed to those which are less racial in nature: White Cloud, Brownies, Black Forest and Black Forest Cake, Black Jack and Black Jack gum, White Shoulders perfume, Red Box, Red perfume, the Black Sea, the Red Sea, Black Box, brown water, Black Hawk, black Irish, black clouds, red skies, and many more. Let us now begin to wonder when The White House will come under fire for being a racist name? Perhaps everything should be named one of Fifty Shades of Grey, thereby also neutralizing any possibly unscrupulous sexual activities? You know, like former President Clinton's activities with Monica Lewinsky left children as young as elementary school age thinking bj's were ok for everyone, were safe, and didn't get people pregnant. No matter how we argue and fight over names society assigns to various groups and items, it still remains the same:  A rose by any other name is still a rose.