Baby Blue, Soft Pink, and All the Space Between

Everyone is talking about trans people. It’s as if they were surrounding the city and clamoring at the gates. I don’t have much experience with trans folks; I think I’ve known three – maybe four. I’m sure I’ve come across several I didn’t realize were trans. Regardless, the ones I’ve met weren’t the clamoring type. If anything they stayed in the shadows and just wanted to be left alone. There are so many people out there who have more to say on the subject and who know more about history and sociology. I merely come to you as someone from the outside who has seen two young people transition and wanted you to hear about what I saw.

These are two kids I know through our “normal” life in the suburbs. They went to my kids’ schools, played in our yard, babysat, or came over for an art class with me. One transitioned male to female (let’s call her Lisa) and the other female to male (let’s call him Luke.) Both transitioned in high school. 

I met Lisa before she transitioned, when she was about…8? 9?  She was kind of a difficult kid to be honest. She argued about everything. She really didn’t smile or laugh. She always looked a little unkempt and didn’t like eye contact. Body language and conversation made it clear that life was a tortuous undertaking and everyone around her was annoying. An odd kid, no question. This was also an unhappy kid. As the years went on, my interaction with Lisa was limited to a few after-school activities and it was clear that this kid was withdrawing, despite being very smart and capable. I could see weight gain and downcast posture. Around sophomore year of high school, I saw Lisa in the hall and was shocked – not because she was now a she, but because she looked HAPPY. Her hair was a little longer and she pulled it back with a simple headband. She had on a clean, light pink 3/4-sleeve t-shirt and black pants. No boa. No drama. The drama was in the fact that she looked me in the face, gave me a whisper of a smile, and said hello. At this point, I had known the kid for like… 8 years. She had never voluntarily entered into a conversation with me or had this aura of contentment and confidence. I cannot fully express the transformation. It was like seeing a plant I thought was dead break open into spring blooms. I was astounded at the change.  

Luke was a little different. I never saw the level of depression that I saw in Lisa. Sure, maybe when we met, he was a little withdrawn, but lots of kids prefer small groups of friends and singular interests (like art!) But when his parents announced his transition and asked for support, I began to see the same sort of light in Luke’s eyes that you would expect to see in a happy kid. Luke is now a ray of sunshine. He legally changed his name, graduated college, grew a beard–  and is now a gregarious, successful, young adult. It was like Luke turned up his life from a 4 to a 9.

These are, of course, anecdotal. They are not anything more than my own experience and observation. But I honestly don’t see why we should have a problem with people taking their life to a 9. I’ve seen people take a financial stance, that they don’t want “their money” going to treatment of trans folks. Fine. I don’t like “my” money paying for the interest on our national debt. We all pay for crappy traffic plans and wasteful spending. We pay for glasses and weight loss and viagra. I’d rather our money go toward helping a person rather than lining someone’s pockets. People also take a religious stance. Again, sure, you have your feelings about what God would say. But, in fact, the Bible doesn’t address this specifically. And Jesus in the New Testament was pretty clear about accepting and loving everyone. You can choose a God of judgment or a God of love. If you choose judgement, I’m going to expect you to treat every person who is divorced, has tattoos, eats shrimp, and makes fun of their mother-in-law the same as you treat trans folks. Lastly, there’s the sports argument. I have a daughter in sports. I can tell you in almost every game she played there was a player who was clearly bigger, stronger, and faster. That’s life – and it isn’t an artificial problem created by trans people. Some people are just going to be able to kick your ass, whether trans people participate or not. I certainly don’t see it as a problem at the high school level or whenever; no one is transitioning to play 8th-grade, mid-level soccer. Title 9 exists so girls could play sports –  because everyone should get to play sports. Everyone doesn’t get to win. That’s not the point; it’s never been the point. As for the Olympics, well, they have their own ways of doing things and they’ll handle it however. If an American competes, I’ll cheer for the American. And after that, it’s whoever has the best outfit/story/smile.

Ultimately that’s it for me. It’s about their smile. I can see the smiles. Other than that, it’s none of my business. Carry on.

Civil

Had a friend post on Facebook this morning about how we just can’t seem to do anything but yell in each other’s faces, right now.  We can’t seem to compromise.  Listening is out the window because we are just trying to win whatever argument we are in, just looking to make points. 

He asked when it will end.  And I don’t know.  I’m trying to see things in terms of, collectively, where this movement will take us.  Will our emotional exhaustions force us to take breaks from social media and see its power decline?  Or are we too addicted?  It’s an unprecedented level of connection which allows us to share personal feelings and day-to-day struggles at a level we’ve never experienced before.  It feeds into our instant gratification and (literally) gives us little dopamine hits throughout our day.  I vaguely remember the same sort of uproar when TV went cable.  Kids addicted!  Moral outrage! Maybe they weren’t wrong then.  Maybe we aren’t wrong now.  But I have to believe it will level out.  People will learn how to manage this new beast. 

But if they don’t, I think we will see a reactive surge of agrarian life: more connection with nature, more space between people (social distancing?), and an emphasis on self-reliance.  Americans have been moving to cities, becoming a more urban community consistently since the Civil War.  This might be the time to turn back.  With pandemics ongoing (and in the pipeline) and food-borne illnesses happening due to long food storage and travel times, I see more small farms popping up. It’s a kind of reaction, a swing toward balance.

And that’s where I’m hoping we are heading, back.  Not back like MAGA back.  I feel like that is foolish, solipsistic nostalgia that completely ignores our problems in the past and the damage they caused others.  However, I am talking politics.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember that a candidate used to be pretty moderate to get the most votes, but since Newt Gingrich got nasty to get his Speaker position and the Democratic party saw the writing on the wall and ousted moderates like Zell Miller, the middle has gotten smaller and smaller.  There used to be more room for common ground.  The middle used to be big enough for both parties.  I’m hoping we can get back there.  Or start a third or fourth party.  But I feel like we’ve almost gotten as far to the right or left as we can without breaking our representative system.  I want to keep the system, but let it do its thing.  (I’m looking at you, Mitch.)

To me, that’s the real question: can we keep the system?  The system is inherently flawed.  It was made by men a long time ago, after all.  However, it was built to be flexible, to change.  We can vote new representatives in.  We can appoint new judges.  We can amend the Constitution.  Our government is a reflection of ourselves.  Right now, we are pretty darn ugly.  Our government represents our personal inability to get past making our own point.

This is where I want to talk about civility, things like civil obedience and civil discourse.  I do not think civility outweighs justice.  Justice ensures civility.  Civility does not ensure justice.  Some of the memes and comments I see online start with something like “If they would just…” follow instructions or not commit crimes or not burn things or be quiet or … behave.  There are a couple of things that get my back up about this kind of comment.

First, who is “they”?  It automatically tells me that the speaker sees the context as us vs them.  “They” is some sort of unnamed, differentiated group that makes decisions, not as individuals, but as a group.  One person is automatically seen as representing an entire group.  I don’t want my decisions to be attributed to every person who is like me.  I don’t represent all women.  I don’t represent all whites.  I don’t represent all Americans.  I don’t represent all former Republicans who are going to vote Democrat.  My actions and words belong to me.  I am responsible for them.  I can and should be held responsible for them.

Second, those comments seem to suggest that following the rules will bring about change for the people who need it.  Historically, that’s just not the case.  American history especially proves that to be true.  We are a nation of misfits and weirdos who didn’t fit in anywhere else in the world.  We literally created our own country because we didn’t like how everyone else was running theirs.  We did that by causing endless problems for England.  King George wasn’t listening to us, so we got increasingly violent.  Eventually, they sent troops to keep us in our place.  The troops roughed us up, threatened us, imprisoned us.  Eventually, they killed one of ours and that did it.  America doesn’t have the moral high ground on this one.  Our history is one of rebellion and in-fighting.  Change came from raised voices and bloodshed. 

People like to point to MLK Jr. and The Freedom Riders as peaceful agents of change.  Yes. From a marketing perspective, then (even more than now) black and brown Americans had to actively combat their image as less smart, more primal, and unequivocally dangerous.  They literally had to make white people see them as human, rather than animal.  Now, the letter of the law acknowledges everyone’s shared rights.  Some laws do this better than others.  However, the actions of the law are still carried out by (not just white) people who suffer from bits and pieces of those long-held beliefs that some of us are more dangerous than others, even when we do our best to really think about these ideas.

But after laws were changed and people of all colors kind of settled back into what felt comfortable, even when groups who clamored for the rights they deserve began to enjoy some freedoms, when black and brown people “behaved,” they still got hassled, beat up, arrested, kept out of management, told they couldn’t live in certain parts of town, set up for predatory lending.  Good behavior did not equal more opportunity.  In some cases it meant less, because some folks just want to keep everyone in their place. 

That feeling, of wanting to keep someone in their place, is not confined to race relations.  I do it with my kids when I don’t feel like I’m getting the respect I deserve.  Josh does it with me when don’t take his word on a “fact” without documentation.  I see it between moms when one mom dares to encroach on the greatness of her kid vs. another kid.  It’s a very human thing to protect our status, our safety, what we are used to having.  I don’t think it is wrong, necessarily, but I do think it needs to be explored.  Underneath it is fear.  It is a symptom of loss of control.  Just like when I do this with the kids, my first (and often explored – sorry kids) impulse is to get louder and exert my authority.  I punish. 

In creating a scenario where I compare my own discomfort with my teenagers pushing back on my authority with our nation discomfort with protests and violence, I have inadvertently made the protesters little teenage punks.  I don’t want to say that.  Their rage (yes, rage) is totally understandable.  I think about my own Karen-y rage that creeps up when things don’t go my way.  Silly things.  Stupid things.  Stuff like not getting served in a timely manner or someone not behaving in traffic.  It is the SAME RAGE I feel toward my kids when I am not getting the respect I deserve.  I cannot imagine the rage I would feel those stupid, silly things were actually big life-changing, life-threatening things.

What I am trying to say is that I understand the discomfort, the pushback.  I’m trying to be honest about how the news affects me, what it does to my blood pressure and my feeling for my fellow Americans.  What I also want to say is this: I think my feelings of wanting safety and security matter less than doing the right thing.

Strangely, that’s kind of hard to write.  I’m pretty protective of my feelings --and, let’s be honest, my stuff.  I’m assuming that most of the folks reading this feel the same way.  I’m allowed to feel the way I feel!  Don’t mess with me and mine!  Totally true.  But I still will put doing the right thing above that.  Maybe we essentially disagree about what is the right thing.  Maybe that’s the problem.  I don’t know, though.  I feel like we all agree that people should be treated with understanding.  I think we all agree that wrong-doing should be investigated and punished, the same across the board.  Maybe even we can all agree that our current behavior really isn’t working for us. 

So, while I don’t agree that civility should outweigh justice, I hope that we do not give up our ability to improve our justice system by civil discourse, even if that temporarily results in civil discord.  I want to believe in the America where we engage in improving our system even when it goes against the grain, rather than protecting it because it feels comfortable.  So I’m working on listening and directing my rants into blogs no one will read.  I’m reading more and stepping back from screens.  I’m looking out the window and reaching out to friends.  I’m reminding myself that change is the natural order of things, not staying the same.  I’m looking for the good in all of us.  Please don’t let us down.

Small Time

I am a small-time artist.  I don’t say that to insult myself.  Actually, it has only been in the last year or so that I’ve been able to own up to calling myself an “artist.”  I used to call myself a painter or just say I was artsy.  I say that because it is an honest assessment of where I am.  I will never be a Banksy, Jean-Michel Basquiat, or Yayoi Kusama.  I'm not tearing up the art scene in SoHo or London.  I'm a suburban housewife who can't seem to not create stuff.  I think that stuff is pretty good.  However, I really struggle with how much to expect from myself.  Am I good enough to put myself out there?  If I think I am, I risk a certain level of delusion and possibly alienating a future resource.  If I don’t believe in myself enough, I risk losing an opportunity. 

I’m proud of where I am.  Please don’t get me wrong.  I am absolutely thrilled with the progression of this art life.  In several years, I have moved from being a mom of young kids who occasionally hacked out a couple of paintings in the lawnmower storage area (one lightbulb hanging from the ceiling) to being able to paint nearly every day in a “real” studio space, complete with doors, windows, and many (many!) light sources.  I sell through friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, and complete strangers.  I'm in cute shops.  I'm in galleries.  I am no longer losing money (yay?) and though I couldn’t pay our mortgage, I might have been able to pay for our utilities this year, maybe our groceries.  Groceries are a big deal.  I do have a 14-yr-old boy, you know. 

And although I can acknowledge I’m small-time, small-time is bigger than amateur – or non-existent.  For the first time, I have expectations for myself.  When I didn’t have any expectations, every tiny success was a wonderful surprise.  Since I’ve started this path, each year I sell more, participate in more shows, buy more materials.  What happens when I have that inevitable down year?  I invite this trouble because I had a down December for the first time ever.  A great year!  A miserable December.  If you didn’t know, 4^th quarter for artists is pretty much go-time.  Usually.  It’s like Prime Day, for a month.  I make small pieces, create ornaments, and print cards.  I have open houses and take new work to galleries.  And this year?  Crickets.  It’s tough. 

It’s tough – and it is discouraging.  I don’t do well with discouraging.  On top of that, I didn’t get into a show that I really wanted to join.  I’ve been working on this big series of mixed media pieces that I love and really have enjoyed making.  I was hoping they’d get to debut together at this show.  Now, I’m looking for a new place for them to go.  It’s a blow.

It’s a blow that I will absorb.  Why?  Because my kids were in the car when I got the email about not getting in the show.  They heard me talk about how disappointing it is, how much I was counting on it.  I want them to see me deal with it.  To pick up and go on and find the new path.  If this blog is about parenting, about me, about art, then this moment is also about those things.  I’ve been turned down for shows before.  I’ve not made the sale.  I’ve had commissions walk away.  Somehow this feels bigger. 

I think it feels bigger because I am at this turning point.  I’m invested.  Literally.  I’ve upgraded my studio.  I’ve created a little gallery space in the basement.  I’ve bought inventory software.  I’ve bought some IG ads.  I’m going all in. 

It’s scary.

What if I’m not good enough?  What if all this time and effort has brought me to a place where everyone is rolling their eyes behind my back: There she goes again: talking about her “art”?  She calls herself an artist.  Crazy Shelley.

I am crazy.  No question.  I’m not technically diagnosed with anything; I am mostly weird.  I wonder too much.  That makes me crazy, I think.  At least it makes me crazy in the world I live in. 

It also is part of what makes me a small-time artist.  I’m not examining a crazy world; I’m not living in NYC or some exotic location.  My art is not terribly outrageous.  I'm not making sense of a genocide that I witnessed first-hand or illustrating an obscure culture that I'm reviving.  My world is very, very uncrazy -- like Leave It To Beaver uncrazy.  I’m examining my uncrazy world and still seeing it as crazy. 

I need another word.  Unusual.  Jarring.  Beautiful.  Puzzling. 

I’m an observer and have spent my life trying to reconcile the discordance I feel between light and interest and growth vs. human self-destruction.  Everyday beauty constantly reminds me that life is bigger than we make it.  The contradictions and connections don't depend on glamour or grittiness. I write about it.  I paint about it. 

So this translation of how I see the world is what I make.  It is for sale.  And rejection of what I make sometimes feels like a rejection of me. This is why I had such a hard time sending my writing to literary magazines.  It is why I usually make safe choices.  It is why I “became an artist” later in life.  It is why I am quiet. 

I’m small-time because I am just now getting it together, just now being gentle enough with myself to introduce myself to others as an artist.  I'm small-time because my art might be saying things that people have already said – maybe they even said it better --but I'm saying it in my voice.  I’m small-time because I’m OK with just getting my foot in a few doors, because it is a business when I’m not quite a businessperson.  I’m small-time because it’s the bravest thing I’ve done for myself. 

So far.

Without Reservations

Pretty sure I’ve said this before on here, but being a parent is hard.  You either have to be a naturally good and wise person (I’m not) or you have to work like hell to become a more self-realized adult to prevent your own crap from bleeding over into your children.  I’m working on option two. 

I mean, I know there are people who really don’t care too much.  They pop out kids without really thinking about much above what the monogram is going to look like on the Christmas sweater.  And they seem fine.  Their kids seem fine.  And they float through life living pretty much the life their parents lived, but with more technology.  I’m not sure how that works because I’m seeing it from the outside (and simplifying it a ton.)  From the outside, I just don’t see how this happens.  Don’t they question?

And I guess that’s it.  I lead an examined life.  And by “examined” I mean, full of doubt and learning and change.  It’s uncomfortable.  I question religion.  I question family ties.  I question what I read and hear.  I question my own thought processes and inspirations.  I question the love I receive and the love I give.  I question my place in this world and my contributions to others.  I question everything.  It’s exhausting.  No wonder I look so old.

I like that I don’t take the status quo and run, but this way of looking at the world also breeds a kind of bone-deep sadness that I don’t want to pass on to my children.  I want a few pieces of absolute joy to shine through – find them where they will – otherwise they work too hard for too little happiness.  Jack finds his joy in his coding world right now and I worry that he will someday find that he is not the best programmer in the world and that “just” being ONE of the best coders in the world won’t be enough.  See how ridiculous I am?  And Lila, emotionally intelligent and logical and indomitable, sees too much of the pettiness of others.  She watches like a hawk.  And thinks that’s the way it is and the way it always will be. 

In a way, I think I want ignorance for my children.  Which is so bad.  Or is it?!  Part of me wishes I had those children who are a little dumb and don’t see the nuances of this world, don’t see what can’t be unseen.  Jack has a little of that, in that he doesn’t always get that people are being intentionally horrible to him.  What a gift!  And my children are given the gift of having come from a privileged background.  They are not threatened with poverty or having to wonder if their lives matter to others or being placed in horrible schools. 

They are, however, part of the epidemic of young people wondering if their lives matter enough to themselves to continue living.  As a mom, I wonder how much I contribute to that voice in their head that says they don’t do anything right, that no one sees them, that there’s nothing better in the future.  Because if that’s what they hear, part of that is ME. 

Trying to get them to see the world as I want to see it – full of opportunities to help others, full of the wonders of the glories of nature, full of a collection of humans with amazing variety of knowledge and experiences – also means there is a world infested with problems to fix and people unlike us who just don’t want to see it.  And that’s sad.

And it was sadness that started it all this morning because it is Monday and it is early and Lila is the new kid at school.  It’s big school and she’s a social animal and it’s hard to be on the outs.  There were tears and lots of moments where I had to hold back my own impatience with her emotions and understand how truly difficult it is for her.  Hugs, hugs, and more hugs, sprinkled with a little bit of perspective. 

My issue is why I felt like she needed those sprinkles of perspective.  I’m trying to help her see that bogging herself down with negative thought over negative thought is a dangerous place to be; you stop seeing the positive.  But I also want her to be ok with just feeling bad sometime.  She doesn’t have to always look for the sunshine behind the clouds.  She doesn’t have to fake feeling good.  She doesn’t always have to pay meanness back with kindness.  I’m looking for the balance.

That’s how I deal.   But is it how I want my kids to deal?  Not really.  I don’t want them to have reservations about where they are and how they feel.   I want them to have a little more confidence that their desires, feelings, worth, and abilities are wholly justified.  My struggle is that I can’t justify things without questioning them.  I always have reservations.

When they were babies, I felt like my job was only to show them how much I loved them so that they would leave our home always knowing that they were loved.  Then, they could function in the imperfect world with a solid base, have a place to come home to emotionally.  They could deal with whatever came their way.

They are no longer babies.  And I feel that parenting has gotten way more complicated.  Pitfalls abound.  The good news is that they are mostly their own person now.  My role has become a bit of a nattering voice in the driver’s seat who annoys them with questions about their life and commentary about current events and the occasional embarrassing singing episode.  

But maybe I need to return to how I parented my babies a bit more.  Maybe my only real purpose is to love them as hard and as often as I can.  Because everything else is unstable.  The questions will always there – in them and in me.  Honestly, I need to do this unbalanced thing because it is the only damn thing I can do without reservations.  Love them.  Love them always.  No holding back.

What I Want to Tell Your Kid

Well, first off, I’m hurt.  Your intention was to hurt someone, I guess, with your nasty Instagram poll and meme.  You did.  You hurt Jack.  He obsessed all day about the kid who he thought was his friend who publicly humiliated him on social media.  So, well done.  You hurt his dad, and his sister (maybe), and his mom.  But I’m trying to put that aside and be a parent.  I think this is a learning moment.

What I’m not sure you know is that there is a suicide epidemic in this country.  Kids like you and Jack are killing themselves at higher rates than ever before.  Experts indicate that social media is a factor.  Kids on the spectrum, like Jack, have even higher rates of suicide.  I think it is because although social interactions don’t come naturally to him, he’s smart enough to observe what other kids do and try to do the same thing – and he’s constantly failing.  Do you know how it feels to know you are constantly failing at being normal? 

So, what you have done is shown him that everyone else knows he is failing, too.  In posting your poll about how happy everyone is that he’s leaving, you’ve just reemphasized how disliked he is.  For the rest of his life – because you know he has the memory of an elephant – he will remember how his classmates were happy to see him go.

And it will fester.  It will be added to all the other mean things kids have said to him that he can’t forget.  But it will mean more because it came from someone who had him over to spend the night, who went to QuikTrip with him and bought him doughnuts at DD, who worked on school projects with him.  It came from a “friend.”

It is as a friend that I want to say this next part.  Jack is not the only kid who will remember.  I’m old, almost 46.  Middle school and high school were a long, long time ago.  But I still weigh those men and women by some of the choices they made back then.  Were they a total jerk to their boyfriend?  Did they lie to the teachers?  Did they pick on the little weirdos in the class?  These are the building blocks of their character.  While allowances are made for what they were going through as kids and what they learn as adults, their actions when I knew them as young people are still part of how I see them today.  I don’t know your plans for yourself, but you might want to consider that these kind of digs might get you a few snickers now, but it will cost you in trust.

Trust.  I think that’s why this hurts so much.  We trusted you.  I say ‘we’ because my experience with Jack is that only a certain type of kid is brave enough to be his friend. I feel safe letting Jack hang out with those kids.  It’s usually someone who is smart enough not to be irritated by Jack’s incessant need to be right.  It’s usually someone who understands how valuable Jack’s unwavering loyalty is.  It’s usually someone who appreciates his sense of humor.  But it is always someone who is brave.  Because we know Jack is one of the little weirdos.  Jack knows too.  And his friends know.  Everyone knows.  That’s not really the point. 

The point is what you do with that knowledge.  Jack carries on.  He stays, for the most part, pretty happy.  So I’m hoping he doesn’t turn into one of those sad, sad statistics.  But the teenage years are crazy, so I’m scared.  The people who don’t want to deal with his weirdness, well, they turn away.  Some people are kind.  Some people aren’t. 

You had a chance here, a choice.  It was – to you – maybe a small thing on a day you were bored.  You had this little thought on how to dig on someone.  You followed through.  In that moment, you chose being unkind over kind.  You chose not to stand up for the little guy.  You chose to kick him instead.

My hope is that maybe you realize that your little dig can have big consequences, to him and to you.  And maybe next time you’ll think twice -- or not do it at all. 

Oh.  And you can go fuck yourself.

Solo

If you’re not an artist, you probably don’t really know why I’d be so excited to have a solo show.  It’s kind of a thing, a landmark moment, a big deal.  It’s something to put on your resume or CV; it’s an honor and an achievement.  It means a gallery owner saw your work as valuable enough to put on their wall for weeks at a time.  And yeah, I’m super excited about all that, but I’m more excited that I get to make a sort of visual journal for anyone who might come see it.  It’s my greatest hits. 

A solo show will mean having 60-75 pieces of my art in one place.  It’s never happened before, even in my basement.  It’s hours and weeks and months of my life.  More, it’s a roadmap to how I think, a chance to connect the dots in what I’ve made.

If you’ve seen the kind of work that I make, you know I’m “diverse.”  In the art world, that’s not necessarily a good thing.   However, if you see enough of my work up on the wall, you can begin to see how they share themes, colors, and movement, even if the materials are different.  An encaustic piece shares the same kind of strokes as an oil on canvas.  A resin construction has the same floral style of an ink on yupo.  Fascination with construction of layers is everywhere.  But I’m starting to sound too artsy.  Let me break it down.

(drum solo)

I’m what you’d call a self-taught artist, although that’s far from what actually happened.  What it really means is I didn’t go to art school.  I was taught by artists in the town where I grew up.  I was in walking distance a pretty good museum.  Summer was longer then (8 lousy weeks for my kids) and I spent quite a bit of it in art class.  I took art in high school.  My awesome neighbor down the street (a professional artist) gave me lessons.  I volunteered teaching art at a half-way house when I was in college.  I painted in my dorm room, in my first apartment, when I rented a room in a stranger’s house.  I created things: a lamp from a vase my cat broke, a shower curtain from laminated poetry, a bed skirt from triangular fabric scraps.  I wrote.  I worked.  I moved.  I read.  I got my MFA.

Wait.  What?  Here’s the bridge. 

Yes, I have an MFA.  It’s a studio art degree, but it is in poetry.  Most people don’t even know it exists, but it is a degree that certifies (?!) that I have spent several years studying the writing of poetry.  We studied structure and history and other famous poets, but we also spent required hours in workshop, listening, critiquing, editing, and putting it all out there.  It was a wonderful time in the company of other people who really think about the world we inhabit.  They sit with it.  Then it comes out in these beautiful, gut-poking, sneaky ways. 

So that’s where I’m coming from when I’m putting this show together.  It’s me, untrained by a system of art.  So, sometimes I use mediums in ways they maybe shouldn’t be used or make shadows the wrong color.  However, it also means I have a way of looking at things as a poet.  I see the underlying structure and how missing a supporting column makes you go back and look at what’s shaky.  I think in building ways, putting unrelated things together to make a metaphor that rings.  I understand juxtaposition, alliteration, and allusion and I paint with them. 

When you look at my encaustics next to my resins, a little piece next to a huge piece, paint next to ink, try to think of them like lines of a poem, or poems in a collection.  Because that’s what they are.  I wrote them into being.  They are how I see things: in pieces, separated, coming back together, everything loosely connected by beauty. 

(That’s my big finish.)

Wings

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing.  You know, with parenthood, with trying to be a fully realized person, with art.  There are SO MANY artists out there, so many wonderful, talented, driven artists with really great hair and darling babies and so much more energy than I have.  I scroll through Instagram and depress myself with all the people I follow who A) make a new painting every day --or like 3 new paintings--or B) just have talent oozing from their golden fingertips like they’ve eaten Midas. 

Then I make something that I think is really cool.  Like today.

Actually this isn’t something I made today, it is something that became fully realized today.  Or almost.  I still have a little “finishing” to do.  But, people!  It happened.  I brought some things together that didn’t go together before.  I had a problem inside an idea and I solved it.  It looks pretty.  It means something.  It WORKED.

If I were in better shape I’d be jumping up and down.

Can I tell you about it?

It’s called Flight Pattern.  Or Flight Path.  Still thinking. 

It started a year ago as a coaster – or really a remnant of resin from another project.  I had a little square silicon mold and I poured the leftover resin in it, then added some thematic elements: a wing, an owl face, some feathery ruffles, the word “flight”, a little gold.  It was cool.  No idea what I was going to do with it. 

The next time I had some resin leftover, I made another.  They developed in theme.  They were all girl power.  They had feathers and wings and metals and words about the future and flying and… girls.  Every one different. 

They weren’t even my colors.  I didn’t have a plan.  Every now and then I’d take them out and think about what they could do. 

Turns out they were lousy coasters – too uneven.  They became “tiles.”

But a funny thing happened.  They started to mean something.  I realized I was putting together little snapshots of girlhood and feminism. 

It is not new for me to struggle with how being a woman looks for me and what that means for my daughter.  I still have all the hang-ups of wanting my child to be polite and sweet, but I have seen the TED talk and the articles about how that parenting approach only ensures that she will be left behind after elementary school and trained to only follow the rules, never to push them.  She’ll be well-behaved, but never fly above expectations.  I don’t want that.  That’s what happened to me.  I want something different for her.  She’s funny and so very, very people smart in a way that I never was.  I want to praise her crazy-strong body and her loud voice, her chance-taking and her questions.  And even in wanting those things, I hold her back in little ways.  That’s on me.  It doesn’t mean I don’t see and appreciate the fierce joy and possibilities that her self holds.  I do, but I'm not always the best at fostering them.  I’m learning that I’m not going to be the one that is able to teach her how to go beyond.  I only have to get out of her way so she can rise.  All that.  Tile by tile.  A little gold.  A butterfly we found on the front porch.  Some darkness, some places clear. 

Still, these thoughts were a stack of tiles, connected in color and theme, but going nowhere. 

Then my mother-in-law brought me some ceramic pieces from a totem she made for her garden.  And I started thinking structurally, how I could connect her pieces into a hanging sculpture, or a resin piece that would echo the circle and line abstract work I’ve been doing.  And in thinking about how I could make a piece for her ceramics, I thought maybe I could make a piece for the girl tiles.

I turned a deep panel over and painted it and poured clear resin, then added a path in copper and white and blacks.  It sunk and moved as it took two days to harden, but turned out pretty cool.  Now, how to attach the tiles?  I was initially thinking I would drill a hole in the resin and hammer in pegs, but I went to Home Depot to see if I could find something better than just pegs.  I did.  I have no idea what they do in real life, but they are these little copper tubes that flare a bit on one end – just enough to hold if I poured another layer of resin, which I did.  First I had to mark where I wanted the tiles and make sure the pegs would stay in the tiles.  Found the right drill bit to keep the tiles on the copper pegs, and… (angels singing.)

I mean.  I just love this stuff.  It’s a weird sort of problem solving, making something like this.  It has absolutely no purpose, other than depicting my own sort of feminism motherhood journey. (The path goes down, gets dark, then goes up.)  The tiles are even interchangeable; it doesn’t have to be MY journey.  But dang.  I just love it so much.  It’s like pulling out thoughts I didn’t even know I had and making them physical.  That has to mean something, right?  Being able to say something with things? 

Maybe someday, when my girl and I can’t stand even looking at each other and she doesn’t think I understand a single thing about her life, maybe something I make will have a voice she can hear.  Maybe she’ll see herself in the skateboarding silhouette or the “future interests” I have sharing space with music in this piece.

Maybe she’ll understand we both make our own paths, but I tried to let her fly.