Change Rest Change

It was a cool great day on the Taconic Parkway, but the weather was perfect for walking around Manhattan.

We had zipped down to help a friend move a few things to their apartment on the upper West side and then headed to the other side of Central Park to see a Turner exhibit. 

T1 drove us, a huge change from the country driving when he cut his teeth. It was unnerving but also a little thrilling to see him navigate Manhattan streets and city life with the skill and confidence of an adult. 

The Big Guy lived in Boston when you’re first married, and our day trip reminded us of how much we once loved city living. we took a secured us walk from the parking garage to the museum and back, soaking up the music of at least seven languages heard from passersby and the aromas of myriad restaurants.

It was a feast for our senses and a change from the daily grind almost as huge as realizing that Thing1 will be perfectly fine when he gets out on his own. But a lot of times a changes isn’t just as good as a rest, it’s way better.

Love the One You’re With

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They say the best camera is the one you have with you. It’s one of the reasons I abandoned my SLR camera in favour of one-handed point-and-shoots while Thing2 still wanted to hold my hand everywhere we went.  

I’ve found the same holds true for art supplies. I have a drawer full of watercolour supplies, but lately, it’s the $6 purse-sized watercolour tin and purse-sized journal that have been winning the title of ‘best art supplies’.  

More from Less

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The Big Guy and I rarely go to movies. It’s too expensive once you add snacks, and since most of the movies geared towards adolescent boys rely on volume to sell their stories, we’re just as happy to let the kids watch them on Netflix with the headphones plugged in.

We are religious about our local theater, Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, NY, however.  The title on the playbill is irrelevant. When Hubbard Hall announces a new play, we make plans to see it with and then without the boys.

We were both reminded of the reason why on Saturday night when we went to see Tennessee William’s Glass Menagerie. The most autobiographical of his plays, it depicts the dysfunctional mother and her two dysfunctional older children trying to carve out a living and a life for themselves.

Hubbard Hall is famous for stripping down a play to its bare bones. Occasionally they incorporate elaborate sets into the stage design, but more frequently, minimal props and sets are used.  Hubbard Hall has been fortunate to have had a string of wonderful directors and actors, and the less elaborate sets let the audience focus on performances where simplicity works to suspend reality for two hours.  It leaves the viewer gripping their seat the entire time as they react to the play and pray for the spell to continue as long as possible.

Saturday did not disappoint.  When the daughter Laura’s unicorn and then her heart are broken, I could see other audience members on the verge of tears.  When the son leaves and reflects on his abandonment of his family, people next to me were audibly crying. 

The play ended almost on a whisper, and, even though it was almost the cost of a movie for four (minus the snacks), the Big Guy and I walked back to the car in awe — as we always are — of how much bang we got for our bucks.

Minions Holding the Floor

So Herman the Hermit was discovering his own beauty in the reflective surface of the aquarium, Oscar the Guppy was hiding among the purple plant leaves (apparently nursing some slight from the minions), and yours truly had only enough time for one 3-minute timed drawing.

Normally I don’t ask the minions to pose because they don’t like to hover long enough for a photo. Today, however, they had congregated under the bonsai to hold a secret (and stationary) meeting of the Guppy Poet Society.

Oscar had started the club and invited everyone else (Herman being a Hermit said he’d be happy to make guest contributions) so he felt it was perfectly fair to name it after Guppies. The Minions felt naming the club after guppies devalued their own contributions, and they came up with the idea for uniforms after all. 

The water was soupy with drama, and, contrary to popular opinion, drama does not produce poetry.

Oscar and the Minions were still at odds when the 3 minute buzzer went off. The only thing they managed to agree on was to have flakes for breakfast.

Minions in the Morning

The neon tetras are hilarious to watch sometimes.

I got a bonsai so Herman the Hermit could have a retreat for the more social fish, but the the tetras, a.k.a the Minions immediately claimed it for their daily 3PM game of tag.

Herman got sick of the ruckus and gave up the shady spot under the bonsai to spend more quality time with the thinker girl.

Make Me Smile

We decided to reconnect our granola, earth-sheltered house to the grid before the first snow fell last November, and, after years of watching every watt, we indulged. 

We used an electric dryer over the winter and  renewed a relationship with our crock pot. I even adopted a school of tetras and a guppy, setting them up  in style with a few plants and a little stone thinker girl.

I added a Plecostomus, also known as a Suckermouth Catfish — technically a bottom feeder — to control  algae.  He was a little shy at first, so I named him Herman the Hermit, resisting the urge to name him after some politician.

Soon, I caught him whispering in thinker girl’s ear, and her smile seemed to grow (he must have been telling her how well he’d clean the tank because he did). Her beaded hat gleams, which made me realize most politician are not bottom feeders.  Bottom feeders performs a useful service, after all.
 
And, anyway, how many politicians would think to make a woman smile by cleaning up without being asked?

Perfectly Still

A few months ago, wanting to improve my paintings and realize a dream I’d had since high school, I began looking for an affordable art school.  I wanted to improve my drawings, learn more about techniques and be in a community of other emerging artists. 

If you’ve ever looked for  art schools, however, you’ll know what I mean when I say that the word ‘affordable’ is REALLY subjective, and, realizing that getting a BFA or MFA would require mortgaging all my vital organs to pay for it, began designing my own MFA in illustration.  I looked at the curricula for a number of schools and set about finding inexpensive workshops that paralleled them as closely as possible, settling on an online classical drawing course.

The first part of the course focused on breaking bad habits — holding the pencil wrong, starting with the wrong subjects — and starting new, good habits. Ironically, the affordable drawing course had a fairly pricey equipment list. Wanting to follow it as closely as possible, however, I went online an ordered everything except the $250 easel. And then I waited.

And I waited.

I waited for the stuff to arrive. I waited for the next lessons on using it properly. 

And I didn’t draw a thing. 

Not a cartoon.

Not a single still life or even an recklessly abandoned landscape.  Even my book layout slowed to a crawl.

My art — and with it — my blog was perfectly still.

A friend pointed it out to me: “Your blog is static. You’re only posting every few weeks.”  And I wanted to add that the posts were uninspired because I was uninspired.  I began telling myself the posts were so infrequent because it took too long to illustrate them the way I wanted.

Then a friend invited me to test out a watercolor tutorial she had developed for an educational website.  The video turned out to be a fun review of basic skills, but what stuck with me was a phrase she kept repeating: “Be gentle with yourself.”

I  look at other tutorials on the site and noticed that, other tutors — most of them working illustrators that I want to be — all ambassadors of the “Be Gentle With Yourself” philosophy.  They were also doing was something I wasn’t anymore. 

They were drawing everyday.

My favorite video was a short segment called the “Three Minute Sketching Challenge.”  Inspired the Hundred Days of Sketching project, it advocated timed drawings that guaranteed an imperfect result.  It also guaranteed, however, that there would be a result.

I turned to my fish tank and set the timer. My guppy, Oscar seemed to know he was being drawn because he chose those exact three minutes to do his daily race around the fake bonzai plant, but three minutes later I had a fishy doodle.

Four minutes after that, it was colored in.

Five minutes later, I dropped the ‘serious’ drawing class and subscribed to the way cheaper site .

I did a few dozen timed doodles, cursing when the alarm clock announced it was time for my day job.

Nothing I’ve produced in the last few days is remotely serious. It’s miles away from perfect. I may chase perfect and sign up for a ‘serious’ art class again someday, but, for now, I’m too busy drawing.

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Keeping Score


Around our house, Little League starts a couple weeks before the first practice and, with it, the same exact conversation:

Thing2: “Do I have to play?

Interchangeable parent: “yes”

Thing2: “I hate baseball. (Insert ad nausea exclamations as to why we should not sign up for baseball)”.

And just as I’m looking for the return receipts for the new gear after assuring Thing2 for the umpteenth time that “you love baseball,” something great happens.

Sunday’s something great happened when I drove Thing1 to the rec park for around the free golf course. Ten-year-old Thing2 insisted on going to join me for a walk around the trail, and I said yes, knowing I’d be abandoned for the playground before the end of the first lap on the trail.

We didn’t even finish the first half before Thing2 noticed a classmate and his dad engaged in an impromptu batting practice at the baseball diamond. The friend’s dad, who happens to be this year’s coach, invited him to stay and hit a few, and gave me a few minutes of quiet walking time.

Twenty minutes later, coach and classmate were ready to head home for Sunday dinner. Thing2 helped stow the equipment as he proclaimed his anticipation of the next night’s official practice.

I corralled him back to the trail so we could drag Thing1 from the golf course.

“I hit 30 pitches,” Thing2 told me as he skipped to the last putting green. “That would be a ton of runs!”

 T2 was still calculating his imaginary score when Thing1 came into view.  We arrived to see him sink his last putt and pound the air with his fist in the universal signal of victory.  

The boys had scored big, but I was about to get an unexpected win.

We got to the car, Thing2 waved to his friend across the parking lot. Then he turned to me and said, “Man, I can’t wait for baseball practice tomorrow!”

Score!

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