I made her wait for two weeks past her due date. During a muggy New Jersey summer.

How long did you make your mom miserable before you decided to give her a break and get born already? (I'm sure your mom would answer "too damn long.")

I know I talk about my parents relatively frequently on le blog, but oddly enough, I don't exactly want to dig up anything on Mom for this post before Mother's Day weekend. I guess it's because she's already the star of this month's Gypsy Bonfire. You'd think I would be filling your eyeballs for pages, since I find myself reading Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, following up Little Altars Everywhere.

(What can I say? There's a reason why the first book got made into a sappy, incompletely realized movie.)

So instead, I'll leave you with an excerpt of an essay by Garrison Keillor I found on Salon.com:

Like an old lioness, she'll come running even if you're 2,000 miles away.

That is why you pay homage to the old lady on Mother's Day. You entered this cold world causing her more pain than she thought possible and now she won't ever give up on you.

I thought this was fairly appropriate because I'll be helping someone new with the "you entered this world" part later this year. I'm preggers, people! But I'm sure the 33% added crankiness has been completely unnoticeable.

Scrubs: RIP

But I don't want it to go!

Last night, the series finale of Scrubs aired. It wasn't as absorbing as it usually is -- I think they did a better job pulling off the episode where they did an actual musical -- but maybe that's due to the writers' strike. I'm guessing the staff really didn't have the time to put in the effort they might've, had the season been a normal length.

I don't know which I'll miss more: the actual jokes, or the depictions of JD's relationship with Turk, and Turk's relationship with Carla. One element of JD and Turk's friendship reminds me of my own friends and me: race is part of our relationship but it's just part of who we are, and if we have dumb questions about the other, we can ask because we've put in the time to get to know each other as people.

Carla and Turk's relationship, on the other hand, I love because she's bossy and he's just stupid -- but they work together, in spite of their egos. Plus, Turk looks (and acts) a lot like my brother.

I hope the actors all find work at least as good as Scrubs. And I really want to see Angela Nissel (wrote about her here) one of the writers who became a supervising producer, get another show!

I miss them already. Yes, I know they're in syndication. But I miss them.

I blame this on Dr. Kelso.

Homework. This could require thinking.

Ricë and I had a good talk last month about getting to know yourself and your art better... what really excites you, what medium/media you love so much you want to marry it, things like that. Like decorative paper and transparencies and stuff. (See more on my Flickr pages.)She suggested I get off my ass and do some deep thinking about these things. The threat of her nagging me to do so reared its head also. So I've been thinking. (Yes, that was the source of the smoke you smelled.) I hate hate hate homework, but I've been thinking.In my last piece, Dryad and Child, I was thinking about the face(s) I mean to show to the world, and the ones that show whether you know it or not. When I was younger, I thought one had to be the real thing, and the other was fake or not as authentic. (I was a teenager. Cut me some slack.) But I now think it's more like parts fade in and out, depending on circumstances.
Even with children. Which is why I printed one face, and layered another on top, on both figures. You look at one face, then the other, then back to wonder what one face expresses or conceals...

Another element of these shifting perceptions: all of the faces I used are of African Americans. Even the transparency face. They're just different shades of black people.

So I guess essentially, I like translucent layers, especially faces, because you can see two elements at a time and your mind shifts back and forth from one perception to another. My clever Artfest roomies Cheryl and Layla picked up on that right away.
That's why I like lace paper so much, and the semi-translucent white leaves on the dryad's over-skirt. I used to adore vellum when I first started making cards, for the same reason. The delicacy obscures, but doesn't completely hide, the layer beneath. This piece was the first I've made where I think that interest came out to the fore.

Dryad and Child is for sale (email me if you're interested), mainly because I want someone else to be as fascinated by the faces as I am. I plan on putting the piece on my Etsy store tomorrow.

Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about

Hey y'all -- exciting news! I've been picked to be next month's Gypsy Bonfire contributor!

Now I know I don't have to tell you much about Lisa Hoffman. She's one of the journal contributors of True Colors: A Palette of Collaborative Art Journals. Actually, Lisa originated two journals; one was lost in the mail for a bit, so she started another. (Isn't that book like visual crack? Except without the need for rehab.)

On her blog, she has a section where she invites people to tell stories. The kind of stories you'd hear if you were actually hanging out in person. The idea is to provide a place where all us like-minded folks can get to know each other better, even if we never meet in person. So I dug up some pictures of when I was Skeeny (skinny as all get out) and coughed up a few words to string it all together. Lisa and I talked last Friday, and we're officially sharing all sorts of inappropriate information with each other. (Kidding!) Find out which story made the cut.

And tell everyone to tune in May first! Hey, that's May Day. (Try not to think too hard about what dancing around the maypole means.)

Last bits of Artfest

Show and Tell Night was probably even more of a madhouse than Vendor Night, because the rooms in which the art was spread out were more cramped. And of course people want to linger over pieces they like. But it was worth braving the crowd.

The idea is to give you a chance to see what everyone else has been working on in the previous days, and to give you ideas of what you might like to take next year. (Next year?! Can I recover from this year first?!)

I realized that I missed Michael de Meng's classes... I had a ton o' fun in his "Six Million Dollar Man" class back at Art & Soul.
His Morpheus Box class this time really appealed to me (the one in the center, next photo). I think it's the kinetic element -- look, it moves! It does tricks!
Oh, man, check out this artist's Woven Narrative. Coincidentally, I had tried something similar in my Someday artist book.
Anahata's Symbolic Icons still appeal to me, but I have to get over the "my stuff looks like a poor imitation of someone else's stuff" thing. This is how you learn, goofball.
I ran into Michael and complimented him on his collaborations with Judy Wilkenfeld, an artist who will floor you with her heritage-inspired works. (He's her beau, too.) Then he said, "hey, in a minute we're all going to go into another room and Judy's going to show her Twelve Tribes book. Do you want to see it?"

Um, no, I have to meet my crack dealer in ten minutes. OF COURSE I wanted to see it!
The book is an enormous, hand-bound, awe-inspiring artist book detailing the twelve tribes of ancient Israel -- you know, the sons of Jacob: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun, Benjamin, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher and Joseph. (Read her March 21st post to get the details.)
Every last detail contains meaning on each page. It's impressive if you don't know much biblical history, but it'll bring you to your knees if you've ever read the Bible's descriptions of each tribe. (Deryn, if you're reading this, you have got to see this on Judy's blog.)

I got a better chance to see the book myself when I went into Port Townsend the next day with Julie and Janine. Judy and Michael were showing it to one of the local gallery owners, and I took pictures of the page devoted to Asher.
Back when we were deciding what to name The Boy (yes, he has a real name), The Husband and I considered naming the baby Asher. It means "happy." (But then I remembered, our kid is half-black. Other black people will shorten his name to Ashy -- which is what black people call skin -- especially at the knees and elbows -- that's so dry it turns white. Um, no.)

Judy really appreciated what I remember of my Bible... I had piped up when she was describing the hand attached to the Benjamin page. Benjamin's mother Rachel, who died after giving birth to him, named him "Ben Oni", which means "my son." But her husband Jacob overruled that and named him Benjamin, which means "son of my right hand" in Hebrew. Judy actually used a left hand, for reasons I really wish I could remember... Oh, it's just so beautiful. Go look at Judy's pictures; they're far better than mine.
I could've stayed much longer, of course, but I had to get back to The Husband and The Boy and make sure they were still in their respective pieces. I didn't worry about them while I was gone, but then when I headed for the ferry home, suddenly I had to keep myself from imagining all sorts of catastrophes. So I distracted myself by thinking about sorting through all my trades...
and I headed home.

Artfest was wonderful, and wondrous, but until maybe today I felt like my innards were turned inside out. I guess it was the extended amount of time spent creatively exposed. I'm just now thinking of making something, anything, new.

Have I mentioned that you guys rock?

Well, you do. Submit to the pleasure and admit that you rock.

Thanks for reading and commenting. It means the world to me, and it makes me dig my virtual toe in the dirt with pleasure.

Yeah, I'm going there. And you're coming with me.

"Oh boy... she's going to talk about black people again." Yes, I am. No, you don't need a special permit to Go There with me.

Photo courtesy Julie Molina

You may have noticed in the second-to-last post that I said I was going to talk about the last day of classes, "and why all the black kids sit together in the cafeteria." (It's a reference to this book.)
I just had to bring it up when Amy Lee and I met Laren, who's wearing the purple scarf.

Photo courtesy Julie Molina

I said, "You know, if one more of us shows up at the bonfire, we're going to qualify as a mob." (This is a reference to an old, not-really-funny joke that white people think more than three African Americans in one location means the black people are about to form a mob, probably to seek out and mug white people.) We all laughed, but then I pushed it a little.

Now that I've pointed out the elephant in the room... why is it that there are hardly any people of color at these retreats?

I'm plenty used to being either the only African American, or one of less than ten, in a room. This has been my life throughout grade school, college and my working life, really. As a consequence, my circle of friends tends to look like a United Nations gathering.

But I still look around every so often to see if there are any other African Americans in class with me, like this lady who said she came all the way from Baltimore.

I counted. There were six black women at Artfest, including me.

Let's get a few things out of the way: I in no way think this is some sort of conspiracy to keep black people out of this milieu. Nor did I ever feel like a bug on display because of my skin color. And I don't expect these retreats to go looking for people of color.

It's just... why are we the only [black] ones here?

Unfortunately, I can't remember how Laren found out about Artfest. But I think Amy Lee said she'd read about Artfest in the back of one of the Stampington/Somerset arts magazines, in the conventions/events listings. She's also a graphic artist, so she's a bit more likely to run up against this kind of thing.

Amy Lee also mentioned something that seemed to ring true. She said that when she was in school as a kid, art was not really something black kids were encouraged to pursue, as a career or as a hobby. Parents, especially, were more concerned that you got an education that would help you support yourself. (I hear that kind of reasoning from my friends with immigrant parents, only more strongly than in my family.) So: graphic art major -- okay. Fine art major -- not okay.

And it's not just Artfest: at the last moment during Art & Soul last year, I looked around and saw maybe one or two other African American women there. Forget about African American men -- it's astounding to see any men, who aren't instructors, that is.

The Ever-Gorgeous Earl (lots of photos of him in this post at Ricë's blog) had noticed this phenom too. In particular, we wondered: if black women hardly ever come to these things, then where are they? At local dance clubs? Watching TV? (That was the option we thought most likely.) Too damn tired from work and family to do something like this?

The EGE is a black man from Midland, Texas, and not quite the profile of the rare man who does venture into these estrogen-laden venues. But he does because he's a thinker, and he's lots of fun (and because Ricë wouldn't have it any other way).

The best we could figure is maybe it's a combination of money issues, and comfort level with art. I mean, pitching close to $2K, in one shot, at what most outsiders would consider a hobby is something not many black people I know would do. They'd be more likely to recommend you have your head examined (another thing many black people are deeply resistant to doing. "Take
your troubles to God" is what you'd most likely hear, or some version of "suck it up, weenie.")

TV, on the other hand, is cheaper than traveling to any retreat or conference. (I myself spend quality time with our big-ass TV.) So is going dancing with your friends. And no one will call you "bougie" (bourgeois, snooty) or some kind of freakjob for doing either one.

I really don't know. But it bothers me sometimes that so many people who look like me have no idea Artfest exists, much less how much fun it is.