My Mother's Paint

As a child I used to sit for hours at my mother easel, watching in awe as she transformed a blank, white canvas into a work of art far beyond any I hoped to create myself. I longed for that visual medium that came like magic to my mother’s brush or pen or chalk. I cursed my clumsy fingers that lacked the ability to draw a straight line, much less anything more complicated than a stick figure in a field of thumb-print flowers. My admiration for my mother’s talent was boundless, and I still look on her work with the awe of a four year old on Christmas morning.

My mother always included me in “art time.” When we could afford to, we’d go to those ready-to-paint ceramics studios, and we’d paint plaques, or figurines together. And when Mom gave art lessons on barter or to friends, she would encourage me to join in. I would sometimes be able to draw with decent approximation whatever the day’s object might be...a flower on a window sill, or a table with different-shaped vases. I wasn’t half-bad at still-life once I really put my mind to it.

But I felt that I always went too far with my project, or not far enough. When we chose identical ceramic pigs to paint, Mom’s turned out lovely and delicate and life-like, with soft brown hair and sweet expressive eyes, and mine turned out…well…a bit more like a cartoon pig with far-too-vibrant peach hair and big never-found-in-nature-blue eyes. That pencil sketch of a flower that would really have looked quite lovely left as a sketch? I’d ruin it when I tried to color it in, smearing the pencil outline and muddying the reds and greens I tried to add. The drawing I made of children walking hand-in-hand on the beach remained forever half drawn, their incomplete faces never gazing into the soft waves I left out all together…

My mother would probably tell you a different story about my own abilities as an artist. She’d remind me that Wilbur, my favorite pig as a child, WAS a cartoon, so of course the ceramic pig I painted would emulate him. She’d say that the flower I ruined wasn’t ruined at all, that I was merely illustrating what I saw the way I saw it. Mom would point out that the children I began to draw, but didn’t finish, were in fact quite an accomplishment.

“It’s very interesting what you’re doing there,” Mom would say as I bent my head over the sketch pad she loaned me.

“How so?”

“Well,” said Mom, “you started with the feet first.”

“Is that wrong?” I asked, anxious now that I thought I had, once again, ruined what might have been my masterpiece.

“No, it’s not wrong, it’s just different. Hands and feet are the hardest to get right.”

It took me twenty years to really understand the things my mother tried to teach me through art. In my young mind, if I wasn’t getting the same outcome at the easel that my mother did, I was a failure. If the colors in my flower weren’t as crisp as Mom’s, then they were awful. If I couldn’t draw faces the way she did, or even finish a drawing, I had no talent. I never thought about the fact that my mother had been drawing and painting and honing her craft her entire life, or that I’d always chosen choir and drama over art class. It never entered my mind that perhaps one of the reasons I couldn’t create what my mother could wasn’t because I had no ability, but rather because I had not 1/100th of the passion my mother did for drawing and painting.

I didn’t grasp then that the reason my mother was so amazing with visual mediums, and so very gifted at crafting people, was because she loved it, and she nearly always drew what she loved. She wasn’t just being nice when she commented on how remarkable it was that I drew the feet and hands of those children first, she meant it. For her, feet and hands were truly exasperating because they weren’t what she was interested in. Feet and hands weren’t what she saw. Character was my mothers delight as an artist. The sadness in the eyes of a neglected wife, the beaming smile of a little girl with her favorite toy, the sagging jowls of an elderly man, the weathered creases in a farmer’s brow…if my mother was extraordinary at capturing someone on canvas, it’s because she painted what fascinated her, and she captured what she saw, the way she saw it.

I still wonder at my mother’s gift, and her ability to see through a blank white square to the portrait that’s waiting inside. And I hope that I can create characters on stage half as true to life as those my mother creates on canvas.

Happiness is...

It’s been a long time since I’ve written in this blog. Not that I’ve not written anything -bits and pieces per my usual, and I’ve been working on a musical parody as my first official assignment as (ehem) a new Artistic Associate with Hubris Productions (more on that later). And my absence certainly hasn’t been lack of inspiration – in fact I’ve had a wealth of inspirational articles and topics and readings come my way since last I blogged. A friend of mine passed along a fantastic videoed speech on the nature of creativity given by Elizabeth Gillbert. I read Eat, Pray, Love , a memoire authored by that very same Elizabeth Gilbert (if you haven’t read it, you should). I read a quite disturbing article about luxury and relative personal economics. And I’ve been meaning to have a long-overdue discussion with Feminism…but oi, I’ve been busy.

I stumbled upon this blog yesterday* 13 Tips for Actually Getting Some Writing Done , which prompted me to go here today*. I realized, if I go back to the very first post I made here, this blog has always been about the pursuit of happiness. A creative happiness, but happiness none the less – and it’s high time I picked up my blogging-stick.

I’m going to start by working on my own set of happiness commandments. I’ve been compiling a list of quotes and potential commandments and would like to share a few (ha!) that may or may not make the official list. Perhaps over time I can suss out the ones that seem repetitive, the ones that bear repeating, and the ones I can’t (or at least shouldn’t) live without. And the ultimate goal would be to have a succinct (good luck Cali – perhaps my 1st commandment should be “be brief”) list that applies to both my life and my creative productivity (perhaps there’s another commandment “creativity is life and life is creative – stop trying to put them in separate boxes”). I can see already that “be brief” one would be really tough…

The list so far:

Be brief

Creativity is life and life is creative – stop trying to put them in separate boxes.

Philosophy is best expressed in the choices we make. – modified quote, Elenore Roosevelt

Being happy is a choice and a duty. –modified quote Robert Louis Stevenson

St. Therese wrote: "When one loves, one does not calculate."

Act as I want to feel / fake it till you make it (thank you Candice Koern)

Quit bitching and do something.

We don’t sing because we are happy. We are happy because we sing. – Dr. Claire Buie Chaney

Be Kind and Patient

So you say I gotta be me – Revenge of the nerds

When asked, “Master, which is the great commandment in the law?” Jesus answered, “Thou shalt love the Lord they God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” Matthew 22:36-40.

Say Yes, and… - Second City

Ralph Waldo Emerson :
“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you lived. This is to have succeeded."

Progress, not perfection, is what we should be asking of ourselves. – The Artist’s Way

On that same topic: Practice does not make perfect – but it does make progress.

Love is action

If you can't show compassion for yourself, how will you ever be able to show compassion to others

I will sell this house today. – American Beauty

Let go

Persistence, Permanence, Perception – Dr. Claire Buie Chaney
(I would add Patience)

Happiness is a choice

Words have power. Speak into existence only that which is positive.

You must do the thing you think you cannot do

Seek God and give thanks.

Breathe

Pray

Give for the sake of giving

Read

You can’t get what you don’t ask for

Give more than I take

Finish what you start

Quality time with loved ones does not include TV

Be Cali

Until I get these distilled down to 10 I’ll be spending some time with them here discussing what they mean to me, how they can and should apply to my pursuit of happiness, etc.

*The yesterday referenced was actually Wednesday 5/27 – perhaps I should add “Stop procrastinating!”

I couldn't say it any better than this...

Please read my friend Josh's post about teen bullying in Cy-Fair ISD (where we both went to school).

http://makingcopy.com/

Thank you Josh for your words and your brave heart.

11 things that make me terribly happy (in no particular order)

As I've been re-entering the blogosphere I've been catching up with some of my favorite blog reading as well. I stumbled onto The Rockstar Diaries one day last year when a regular read led to another site which led to another which led to a site discussing the author's fantastic sense of fashion and wonderful photos. I kept reading RD because the story these two are creating with the life they are building together is so uplifting and hopeful and sweet...and not the cloying kind of high-fructose sweet that makes your teeth ache, but the honest, pure sweetness of romance and art and love (le sigh).

Anywho - there have been a series of posts on Mrs. Davis' blog regarding happiness and I thought it only fitting that I jump on her list-making band-wagon. But I'm making mine 11:

11 things that make me terribly happy

1. When Kevin tells me “seriously that’s the best thing you’ve ever cooked” no matter what I feed him
2. Music that squeezes my heart
3. Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk Ice Cream
4. The sound of trains
5. Wonderful foreign films filled with beautiful color
6. When Hiro decides to nap IN my lap, and not just next to it
7. A good play
8. Accordions – to see and to hear
9. Singing at the top of my lungs while cruising down Lake Shore Drive
10. Putting two dryer sheets in the laundry just for that extra bit of smell-good
11. Reading about others' happiness and letting it inform my own

Conversation During the Grammys

Most people know what THE LIST is, but for those who don't (or who never saw that episode of "Friends") THE LIST is a record of 5 celebrities one is allowed to bed without retribution by one's significant other. It's pure fantasy, but apparently even my fantasy life needs rules. So, Kevin and I have a deal where by some list-nominees are sanctioned (Kate Bekinsale) and some are not (Jessica Simpson). And by deal I mean that after I rejected enough list nominees and even offered up a few suggestions of my own (Zooey Deschanel) Kevin finally gave in.

Kevin: I'm gonna have to add Fergie to my list.

Me: Fergie is not sanctioned.

Kevin: Why not?

Me: Well, she's drag-queenish and kind of slutty. Same reason Pam Anderson is not sanctioned.

Kevin: But she’s hot, and maybe the list needs some slutty.

Me: Your list is getting really long you know...

Kevin: So she’ll be second-string.

Me: You’re grasping.

Kevin: Besides I should have an older woman on my list...

Me: And Fergie's OLDER?

Kevin: Yeah she's like in her mid-30's.

Me: I want you to think about how old your WIFE is, and then think about what you just said.

Kevin: I love you…

That cute boyish grin gets him out of more trouble...


Stacy Ann Ferguson was born on March 27, 1975, a mere 3 months before said wife.

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good year...

In a few days I will mark the end of my 33rd year. I’ve long believed my thirties would be a time of tremendous progress for me - perhaps because I was once told by an acting coach that I’d really start to get work in my thirties, or maybe because I’m a perpetual late-bloomer. For reasons I can’t name precisely, I felt the year numbered 33 would be an especially auspicious age. 33 promised to be a year that would see previously illusive happinesses unfold themselves like long awaited late-blooming flowers, finally offering their full beauty. 33 would be the age at which I could finally release the breath I’d been holding all my life, sigh in great relief, and cross that line between the woman I longed to be and the woman I am.

I haven’t accomplished all I’d hoped to at this age, and often wonder if I’m too old for (fill in the various goal/activity/hairstyle/skirt length). New-to-me art forms call to me on a fairly consistent basis – a banjo or ukulele will say “play me” or a camera beckons me to view the world through its lens. Shouldn’t I, at my age, be content with performance and writing and sewing? I wonder if I’ve passed the stage in life when it’s acceptable/appropriate/possible to continue pursuit of my current chosen field(s) of art, let alone pick up new ones. What if I never star as lead in a comedy that’s both critically acclaimed and financially successful, become America's next some-where-near-the-top-of-the-middle singer/songwriter, and/or write the great American post-feminist novel all while winning a Tony® for best new play, mastering the fine art of baking French macarons and rearing the worlds most precious and well behaved children? Oh motherhood, who’s knock on the door of my belly is growing increasingly insistent - I swear I hear you! And yet...I can’t think of the past year without thinking all these potential ambitions and more (that's right I, said more) are in fact possible.

In many ways I was right about 33 being a water-shed year. I’ve been consistently active both behind and on stage, and became an artistic associate of a young theater company. I began plans to start a business with a fellow artist involving handmade crafts (on hold for the time being, but still a very new venture for me). I started this blog, a small step in becoming a more active writer. I’m taking care of my body in a much more healthy way than I ever have before, and I’ve started to realize I’ve finally reached that place of confidence in myself that prevents the opinions of others from inflecting any real impression upon my self-worth. I’m actively choosing happiness on a consistent basis. And the most wonderful of my year-33 happenings – I accepted a marriage proposal from the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. Not a day in this year has been spent without the sound of our laughter, and I eagerly anticipate the thousands of laughs we’ll share as we build a life together. Thank you year 33 for being so amazingly gracious and giving.

Bring what ya got year 34 – I’m ready.

Merry Christmas

To cap off this holiday season I'd like to present you with one of my favorite Christmas songs, sung by one of my new favorite bands.

Conversation Over Sunday Breakfast

Me: I think Peter Cetera made a big mistake when he left Chicago. I mean what - he had a couple duets and the theme from the Karate Kid?

Kevin: Hey the Karate Kid is a classic! I bet he made a lot of money off that song.

Me: We’re talking about the song not the movie. Do you ever here that song on the radio today? No. And Karate Kid two??? SO not a classic.

Kevin: Well it’s not THAT terrible. (This is where I try desperately to keep the coffee from coming up my nose.)

Me: Did the chick that Mr. Miagi loves in part 2 leave Okinawa and come back with them?

Kevin: No

Me: Why is it the movies end with them getting the girl, but then at the start of the sequel they’ve broken up?

Kevin: Well in 2 Ralph broke up with the girl…

Me: No no no Elizabeth shoe dumped his ass.

Kevin: Yeah but only because he wouldn’t put out.

Me: You’re telling me Elizabeth Shoe dumped Daniel because he wouldn’t have sex with her?

Kevin: Yeah. But in part 2 it was the other way around. See, Daniel wanted to get some but the oriental girl was all good.

Me: Asian. People are Asian – things are Oriental.

Kevin: Whatever. They didn’t start getting bad tough until Karate Kid 4. Three was ok.

Me: With Hillary Swank?

Kevin: No Ralph Machio.

Me: There’s no Karate Kid 3 with Ralph Machio.

Kevin: Yes there is - Ralph Machio and Mr. Miagi try to open their own dojo but the punk with the spiky hair messes it all up. You know the spiky haired guy – what’s his name? Eric….Eric Barnes*. Daniel tries to crane kick him but he catches his foot. That one’s not as bad as 4.

Me: So part 4 is the one with Hillary Swank.

Kevin: Yeah – she’s not hot yet. And the karate isn’t even that good.


*The rival fighter character in KK3 was named Mike Barnes, not Eric.

Blogging is hard...

Well, maybe not so much the actual blogging as the blogging every day part, and so I don't. Blog every day that is...though I want to....and know I should...but I don't always seem to be able to carve out the time to do so. Or the time I have carved out to do so is interupted by cats, or rehearsals, or slick infomercials (those walk-fits I ordered better be damned good), or the crack-of-literature-that-is-the-Twilight-series, or boys who have to use the computer to play games....you see where this is going. And then there's the never-ending question: What to write?

Conundrum! Any excuse at all to use the word conundrum.

So today, in keeping with the upcoming holiday, I will post about things for which I am greatful.*

Borrowed Grandparents + family of significant other (especially that sweet baby - I may have to get one of my own someday)

Realizing there is SO much music out there that I have yet to sample and that I DO, in fact, like indy, folk, country(ish), choral, anything-with-an-accordian-except-polka (thank you Emelie sound track), rockabily, fill-in-obscure-genre-here music AND discovering new-to-me musicians that I love love LOVE! (such as She & Him, DeVotchka, First Aid Kit - the Sweedish sisters, not the electronica group from the 90's) and that I don't have to be a slave to free radio's current rotation of crap (yeah!)

The color pink. And green. And tangerine.

My cats - I promise not to be that crazy-talks-about-her-cats-all-the-time girl (though I am feeling an ode to felines post coming soon) BUT - I love them.

Surprise outings with old friends (yeah Carrie!) and being reminded yet again how very blessed I am to know such amazing, wonderful, talented people, and to be able to call them friends.

My Kevin, who's smile still brightens my day more than any sun ever could.

This blog, where I get to say stuff I might otherwise not, or forget, or write but never share. I shall no longer neglect you blog, but use you with new vigor...next week...after my wee trip for the holidays. I swear.

*Confidential to Hawking - notice I used "for which I am greatful" and did not write "am greatful for" thus avoiding the "ending a sentence with a preposition" grammar trap. I do promise to work on the spelling!

Got a pin?

Remember the segments on Sesame Street about consequences? There was a little girl named Linda who wondered “What would happen if I popped this balloon?” She would then imagine a series of events that might happen and, inevitably, choose a different, safer course of action. She thought ahead, before acting, about the consequences. Little Linda left a huge impression on me.

What would happen if I popped this balloon?

Some phantom voice whispers that question in my ear to this day. At random intervals that seem disconnected to anything in my current circumstances I hear that voice chanting “what would happen if I popped this balloon?” I suppose I hear it as much as anyone who’s ever doubted themselves, or allowed fear to retard their growth or silence their expression…My “popping balloons” don’t seem so much to be choices I should avoid, as fear of making the wrong choices, or the brave ones. That time-old, nagging fear of failure. What would happen if I put it all out there and I fall, I loose, I’m rejected, I can’t connect with my audience, other artists, love…what if?

But what if I succeed? What if I stand tall, if my voice resonates with someone else? What if I can connect with other artists, with love, with life…What if I can be truly, fully and completely…happy? Isn’t it time I welcome the release of all that’s pent-up in those rubber surrounds? Isn’t it past time I relish the sweet release of the exploding pops? Wouldn’t it be grand to spend the next however many years I have left devoting my life to popping those damned balloons?