I Don't Need No Stinkin' Paintbrush

"We become what we behold.

We shape our tools, and thereafter, our tools shape us."

-- Marshall McLuhan

Peacock (acrylic on board) 2-8-14

"The intentions of a tool are what it does.

A hammer intends to strike, a vise intends to hold fast, a lever intends to lift.

They are what it is made for.

But sometimes a tool may have other uses that you don't know.

Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends, without knowing."

-- Philip Pullman,
His Dark Materials Trilogy:
The Golden Compass/The Subtle Knife/The Amber Spyglass

I'm afraid of paintbrushes.

Potato, palette knife, wine corks, comb and pencil 2-8-14

There, I said it.

They make me anxious.

Probably it's because I never learned to use them right. I've just faked it all my life, and not very well.

I don't know what it is. Something about painting with a brush feels too formal, or fussy, or proper, or unforgiving. Painting with brushes is intimidating -- like making forced conversation about topics I don't understand with people I don't like at a cocktail party where everyone's drinking 30-year-old cognac in crystal stemware when I'd be so much happier just shooting the shit with my best friend on the backyard patio over a bottle of $3 Merlot in Solo cups.

At the art store, I never know which brushes to buy. The choices are overwhelming, and good brushes aren't exactly cheap. If I fuck one up, it's gonna cost me some coin. And I don't take very good care of the brushes I do have. Just ask them. I let paint dry in their bristles all the time, or else I leave them soaking for days in Mason jars half full of paint-stained water. When I finally rescue them they're all frayed and fuzzy and stained. They look startled. Shell shocked.

Nevertheless, sometimes I do get the itch to paint a picture. And when I do, so as to allay any fear or anxiety, I typically don't reach for the brushes. I go for more non-traditional tools, non-threatening tools, familiar tools, tools that aren't specifically meant for painting at all.

I once had a ceramics teacher named Martha who taught me that "anything can be a tool."

Like potatoes. Or a comb. Or a pencil. Or wine corks (n this case, the rubberized kind from that cheap Merlot I was mentioning.) If I do use a painting-specific tool, it's more likely to be a palette knife than a brush. I like to scoop big blobs of paint like peanut butter straight from the jar and then glop it around. Smushing and smearing wet paint around with a potato feels good. So does zipping through it with a plastic comb.

As with most of the art forms I dabble in, painting is about therapy. I do it for the feeling I get while I'm actively engaged in it, not necessarily for how I feel about the piece that results from it. And if painting with brushes makes me anxious, well then it's not therapeutic. It is counterproductive. And I'm not about that life. Not anymore.

I don't know if my peacock painting is any good. And I don't really care. All I know is that while I was painting it, I felt happy. And feeling happy is always a good thing, no matter how you paint it.

Getting My Money's Worth

"It's cold outside and I can't wear mittens

because they're not flattering to my hands."

-- Tom Haverford, Parks and Recreation, 

Season 5 Episode 9, "Ron and Diane"

Self portrait 2-7-14

"Thank you adult mittens,

for allowing me to give people the finger

without them knowing it."

-- Jimmy Fallon, Thank You Notes

So I bought these mittens online because they were a real bargain, and also because I needed to round up my total to get the free shipping.

They're transformer mittens, you know, the flip-top kind where the tops of the mittens fold back to reveal half-fingered gloves. So I get the warmth of mittens, yet still have access to my fingertips if and when I need them. It's a best of both worlds kind of thing.

The thumbs of these mittens aren't involved in the big reveal, though. Just the fingers. Except the thumbs have little slits in them just inside the knuckle (between the Proximal and Distal phalanges, if you wanna be all anatomically correct, which, of course, I do). These little slits are just the right size for me to slip out my thumbs for texting, or adjusting my camera, or hitch-hiking, or being fingerprinted, or thumb-sucking or whatever. I simply have to pull off their little knit hoods.

What I really love, though, is that with their hoods up, the little gaps remain open, so my thumbs look like they're wearing itty-bitty ski masks -- like they're about to rob a bank or something shifty.

Transformer mittens with tiny thumb ski masks?

They're warm, practical, and a super-fun toy all in one.

I'm no math wiz, but if my tally is correct, that makes three good things in one day.

I told you they were a bargain.

My Art Apron

"I like my smock. 

You can tell the quality of the artist by the quality of his smock.
Actually, I just like to say smock. 

Smock smock smock smock smock smock."

-- Bill Watterson, The Complete Calvin and Hobbes

Self portrait 2-6-14

When I was a little kid, my friend Susie had an older sister. A high school sister. Who painted.

I remember standing in her bedroom doorway watching her at her easel. I remember the music wafting out -- probably Peter Frampton or somebody else really cool. Her name was Lisa and she was beautiful and she wiped her paintbrushes off right on the faded thighs of her bell-bottom blue jeans.

I thought that was so cool. I thought those jeans were so cool, all dabbed and smeared and speckled with paint of every color, like confetti.

I, of course, was not allowed to clean off my paintbrushes on my jeans. I wasn't even allowed to paint in the house. We always had to "take it outside" onto the picnic table, the "it" being those terrible, dry, hard little cakes of watercolors in the flip-top plastic tray, with paper Dixie cups for brush rinsing.

Now that I'm grown and no one is the boss of me, I can paint where and when I want. And guess what? I wipe my brushes off on my thighs, just like Lisa did. Except instead of using my jeans, I wear an apron that covers the thighs of my jeans.

I never wash my apron. I guess it's like that weird tradition about not washing your karate belt. I don't want to risk turning back time and forgetting everything I've learned while wearing it. It's a map of sorts. A memory. Evidence of where I've been and what I've done, and the art work (good and bad) that helped me navigate the terrain.

It's actually a cooking apron from the Hard Rock Cafe. I don't even know who gave it to me, or when, or why they brought me an apron instead of a t-shirt.

But every time I put it on, I have this momentary flashback to where I'm standing outside Lisa's half-open bedroom door looking in. The lights are low and she looks impossibly cool in front of her easel, with that sexy music wafting out, and her feathered blond 70s hair spilling over her shoulders. She's wearing those faded blue jeans with the paint smears all over them. When she turns toward me, it's in super slow-motion, and she smiles and there's a paintbrush in her hand and she breezily wipes it off right there on the thighs of her jeans, like she does it all the time, which she must judging by all of the other paint smeared there. And my knees almost crumble underneath me because it is so incredibly cool.

I'll never be as cool as Lisa, and I'll never be much of a painter, but something happens whenever I wrap my apron around myself and cinch it down -- a little thrill goes through me that it's time to make something. It's time to create, and explore, and get messy.

That feeling is a good thing.

It means it's time to start an adventure and see where it takes me.

And another good thing?

It always starts at Lisa's bedroom door.

A Matter Of Life & Death

"The hour of departure has arrived, 

and we go our separate ways,

I to die, and you to live.

Which of these two is better only God knows."

-- Socrates

A matter of life and death (spray paint on paper) 2-5-14

"There are moments when a rope's end, a pole, the branch of the tree, is life itself, 

and it is a frightful thing to see a living being lose his hold upon it, 

and fall like a ripe fruit."

-- Victor Hugo

Sometimes death can be a good thing.

Death can be merciful, granting release to someone who has suffered long enough.

Death can be gentle, quietly creeping in on cat's feet during the night to claim its victim without disturbing them from their slumber.

Death can be patient, waiting until the end of a long and full life -- until the affairs are in order, until the apologies are made, until the final sweet words are whispered -- before exacting its due.

But sometimes, death is a bad thing, the worst thing. 

Sometimes death is a hard, cold, cruel son of a bitch. Sometimes death is a mean motherfucker that shows up uninvited and unexpected, barging in unannounced and way off schedule, and trashes the place.

My friend Maria's husband died a couple of days ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. His name was Raj, which, fittingly, means "royalty." Raj was young and vibrant and interesting and intelligent and active. Raj cultivated intricate, exquisite bonsai trees. Raj was not suffering. He was traveling in India, where he was born, visiting family, which he loved. Raj was a beautiful, elegant, caramel-colored man with a brilliant smile and waves of glossy black hair, who spoke with a soft, lilting accent that rolled roundly off his tongue like bubbles in a brook.  

Out of the clear blue, Raj had a heart attack, and Raj died.

From where I stand, nothing about Raj's death looks like a good thing.

Except maybe this.

Since I heard the news, which saddened me deeply, I've felt tenderer toward my husband and my boys. I've found myself feeling a little more patient -- a little gentler, a little kinder, a little sweeter. I laugh more. I say thank you more often. When there was news of yet another school closing today, I didn't bristle. I felt honestly glad that Leo and I get another whole day together and looked up movies for us to see. I offered to cook some of the goose that they hunted for supper -- without making a face.

Something about Raj's death is making me look more closely at my own life and the lives that are in it. It is bringing things into startling close-up and saying "Look at what you have. Take inventory. Because it could all be gone in a heartbeat." 

It's not hard to find. It's right under my nose.

But sometimes you have to look hard for the good.

It's like panning for gold when the prospectors have already carted away the big nuggets, and all that's left behind are flecks of dust and it's all under water and the water's murky and there's a gaping hole in your sieve and all you can do is hope that there's still a tiny speck of something somewhere under the mud for you to put in your bag and carry home.

Heating Pads & A Fuzzy Blanket

"If your stomach disputes you,

lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts."

-- Satchel Paige

If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts.
Satchel Paige
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/stomach.html#JxL0KYUm6KxUbssa.99

If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts.
Satchel Paige
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/stomach.html#JxL0KYUm6KxUbssa.99

If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts.
Satchel Paige
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/stomach.html#JxL0KYUm6KxUbssa.99

Deflated smiley face balloon with push pin 2-4-15

"Peace in the head, peace in the stomach."

-- Jean Bertrand-Aristide

Peace in the head, peace in the stomach.
Jean-Bertrand Aristide
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/stomach_3.html#SO6fxu4p0zazbrhq.99

I had a really bad tummy ache yesterday.

I felt flat.

Like someone had let all my air out.

I spent the better part of the day lying on the couch with heating pads on my belly under a fuzzy blanket.

I ate toast and a very tiny tangerine, and then wished I didn't.

On a typical day, heating pads and a fuzzy blanket are just, well, heating pads and a fuzzy blanket -- ordinary household objects stored in a linen closet down the hall.

But when you're feeling all-over deflated and your tummy hurts and everything else hurts, too, some heating pads and a fuzzy blanket can be very comforting, like warm, quiet friends gently whispering "Sssh. There, there." They didn't take my tummy ache away, but they did relieve it a little. They made it easier to bear.

I know that in the grand scheme of things, a tummy ache isn't a very big deal, even a bad tummy ache. And truly, I'm grateful that a tummy ache was the worst problem I had yesterday. It's a lesser and more transient discomfort than the bone-deep pain of heartache, or soul-ache, or brain-ache, or mind-ache, or emotions-ache, or I-don't-want-to-be-alive-ache. I've experienced those, too. And you know what? Heating pads and a fuzzy blanket didn't take them away either. But they did make them ever so slightly, easier to bear.

Sometimes good enough is good enough.

Coloring Outside The Lines

"Whenever she imagined her child, 

grown up without interference from a judgmental world,

she imagined its male and female halves as complementing each other,

and as being secretly, almost magically powerful."

-- Kathleen Winter, Annabel

Self portrait 2-3-14

"When you grow up as a girl, it is like there are faint chalk lines 

traced approximately three inches around your entire body at all times, 

drawn by society and often religion and family and particularly other women, 

who somehow feel invested in how you behave, 

as if your actions reflect directly on all womanhood."

-- M.E. Thomas, 

Confessions of a Sociopath: A Life Spent Hiding in Plain Sight

"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me:

I am a free human being with an independent will."

-- Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

The very first photograph ever taken of me was in the hospital just after I was born. Its black and white, and in it I look like a just-hatched baby bird that's tumbled from its nest. My mouth is stretched into a grimace, my puffy eyes are jammed shut, my tiny fists are clenched. And stuck somehow onto my fuzzy tuft of spare hair, is a ribbon.

I'm sure my overall angry appearance in this photo was the result of just surviving the rigors of birth and having bright lights shoved in my face, but I like to think I was just really pissed about the ribbon.

I once asked my mother, "Why the ribbon?"

She said, "To show you were a girl."

Hoo, boy.

Fourth grade. Halfway through the school year my family moved and I went to a new school. A girl who would eventually become my best friend asked bluntly, "Are you a boy or a girl?" Having a gender-neutral name didn't help matters. If Mrs. Allison had introduced me as "our new student, Monica," it would have probably eliminated some confusion.

Should have worn a ribbon.

Dinner at a nice restaurant with my family, I was about 12 and sporting a pair of sparkly new birthstone earring studs -- rubies -- and my earlobes were still swollen and stinging from being pierced. (Pierced ears were my mother's idea, natch.) The waiter worked his way around the table taking orders and eventually came to me, asking, "And what will the young man be having?" What was he, blind? Couldn't he see my ruby earrings? Couldn't he see that I'd had metal posts shoved through my tender skin as an outward display of femininity? While my family tee-hee'd and ha-ha'd at the waiter's gaffe, I turned as red as my rubies, burning with the futility of it all.

Should have worn a ribbon.

My natural tendency, my sort of set-point, has always tilted toward the boyish. My face, my body, my hair, my interests. All of it. But I can look like a girl when I want to, or when I have to. I have a whole box of paints and crayons and pencils and brushes and colors for just that purpose. When I have to go to dinner or the theater or someplace "nice," I don't rely on earrings to do the trick. I smear on foundation and shadows and liners and glosses and powders and, as I tell my kids, "turn myself into a girl." I have all the right costume pieces -- the dresses, the shoes, the undergarments. I've even rocked a set of silicone boobs. (They were gross. They just got really sweaty.)

Sometimes I enjoy it. Sometimes I tolerate it. Sometimes it's a monumental pain in the ass.

Mostly, I just like to be who I am and wish we didn't all have to concern ourselves so much about what other people see, or what other people think, or if other people are comfortable when we color outside the lines. Why can't we just color?

Who put the the fucking lines there, anyway?

That guy?

Oh, it's a girl?

Should have worn a ribbon.

My Camera

"There is only you and your camera.

The limitations in your photography are in yourself,

for what we see is what we are."

-- Ernst Haas

Camera collage 2-2-14

"If I didn't have my camera to remind me constantly, I am here to do this,

I would eventually have slipped away, I think.

I would have forgotten my reason to exist."

-- Annie Leibovitz

"When I have a camera in my hand, I know no fear."

-- Alfred Eisenstaedt

You know the old "what would you grab first if your house caught on fire" game?

For me, as long as I knew my family was safely at the curb, it would be my camera. 

It's not a fancy camera. It's not an expensive camera. It's just a regular-people camera. Nothing super impressive. Most people would probably say it's a camera not worth saving and let the damn thing burn for fuck's sake. Shit, you can buy another one at Best Buy after the flames die down and use the insurance money to buy a really good one this time.

Most people wouldn't understand. Besides, I'm not most people.

My camera is not my source of income. Photography is not my job. (If I had to live on the money I've made from the few photographs I've sold I'd be dead by now.) Neither is my camera a mere hobby, although I consider myself an amateur photographer (cuz don't you have to sell shit for money in this world to be considered 'professional' anything?)  

Enough about what my camera isn't.

Here's what it is:

My camera is a witness. 

My camera is a counselor. 

My camera is a companion.

My camera never lies to me, even when the truth hurts. 

My camera has seen me at my worst, and at my best. 

My camera has seen things I wouldn't even let my family see.

When I felt like I was disappearing, my camera gave me visual proof that I was indeed still here. 

My camera has tolerated all kinds of "abuse" -- like a faithful family dog that patiently lets the 4-year-old paint its toenails and dress it in silly costumes -- silently, and without complaint.

I have learned things about myself that I might have never known unless my camera showed them to me.

My camera is a guide that has shown me the way in, and more often, the way out. 

My camera has literally rescued me more times than I can count. So the least I could do if the house caught fire, would be to rescue it.

Even though I know it's not literally possible, I feel like every image my camera has seen is somehow still knocking around somewhere behind its camera lens, inside its camera body, inside its camera soul.

I know all of this may sound ridiculously maudlin and overstated and exaggerated, but it's not. It just how I feel. 

My camera has taken thousands of photographs of me. So for today, I created a collage picture of my camera. And then I photographed it for you with, guess what? 

My camera.