Let's just nip that in the bud.

I don't care how cute they are. I don't care that the word's an endearment to some. No one is allowed to call my kid "monkey."

I just had one of those weird moments as an African American parent, where I had to shut down someone who meant well before they did any lasting damage to The Boy.

Today The Boy and I encountered someone who loves The Boy to pieces, someone who likes to steal kisses from his cheek, tickle him and generally tell him he's adorable. But this morning, she ran her fingers through The Boy's curls and greeted him with, "Hi, monkey!"

And instantly my brain broke in half. One half said, "it's just an endearment!" while struggling to block the other half from attacking the speaker. But the other half got free and, showing some restraint, opened my mouth to say, "I'd really appreciate you not calling him that."

The speaker was surprised (she's kinda young) and said, "Really?" "Anything but that," I replied. And the world continued spinning on its axis.

It's clear that she meant no harm, but she's also old enough to learn equating African Americans to monkeys is enough to get you sent to HR for a talking-to, at the very least. You don't have to look too far into the past to find someone calling black people monkeys. Go back, oh, less than a month.

Woman protests racial slur on t-shirts sold at bar in background.
Photo credit: Frank Niemeir, Atlanta Journal Constitution

And yet I felt like I'd been slightly harsh today. Even though I was just deflecting an unacceptable comment away from The Boy. Man, I wish I could talk to my parents right now.

A la weekend (On the weekend)

I finished the page I made for The Boy's scrapbook. Lots of transfers and transparencies, and a few Mexican lotería cards too. I know that "El Catrín" means "guy" or "dandy", and that it has nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina, but I added it anyway. Elsewhere on the page, there's a transparency of The Boy over a pierced-heart lotería card... but it shows his face. (And when was the last time you saw an unblocked picture of The Boy? Not never. Right.)

The Boy was just over six months old when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. (This satellite picture is printed on white rice paper with a swirl pattern.)
I kept up with the devastation only through listening to the radio in the mornings. Katrina hit not long after I left reporting, so I had some professional interest in the coverage. But I couldn't bring myself to watch on TV. Yes, The Boy was far too young to be watching any TV with me, let alone disaster coverage. But I have to admit I was too much of a chickenshit to expose myself to the misery of children.
Here I was, safe and sound, big ol' Costco boxes of baby diapers at hand whenever I needed them, and there babies were blistering in the heat and diaper rash, lucky to get anything they could digest.

At the time, I wasn't working, and The Husband was working exclusively on his websites, so more money was going out than coming into our household. We did send a donation to the American Red Cross, but I still felt guilty for not doing more. This is why I now take unused diapers to our local YWCA, since they take in battered women and children.

The page is probably a little, um, dark for a scrapbook about a child... but that's how I roll.

On the lighter side, The Boy wandered over to see what I was doing as I finished the page, and asked if he could play. So I helped him make his first ATCs with textured paper scraps. We used matte medium as a glue and sealer.
No shopping involved, minimal mess, and he got to play with Mommy's art supplies. Then he "signed" them on the back with a red Tombo marker. He was very reluctant to give up the pen, but Mommy insisted. (He should count himself lucky. Mommy's been very territorial ever since her brother used to break her crayons as a kid.)

Must start on the next postcard for Tally, and the fatbook page I promised my Artfest dorm buddy Kristie.

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.

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.

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.

Last day of Artfest classes

Whew! Sorry for dropping out for a whole week with no explanation. I'd like to think I blog without obligation, but apparently that is just not the case. We did lose power over the weekend because it snowed (and yes, it was just OUR neighborhood; we saw everyone else's lights a-twinkling).
Anyway. Day three of Artfest classes had me in Bee Shay's "Handful of Curiosity" class, preparing a tiny little journal case and journal pages. How 'bout this for a sample?
First it was down to the beach, and its stinging wind, to collect anything that struck our fancy.
It could be rocks, driftwood, kelp...
(Yeah, those are all kelp. Even the center one: I was praying it wasn't a used condom. But it had this lovely deep red center, and wavy edges which made me think it was some sort of jellyfish.)
Even some little crab remains.

And then we headed back to class to think on what we'd collected, and why. Then we wrote our thoughts on heavy printmaking paper that we dyed with Adirondack re-inkers. I had all sorts of deep thoughts on the beach: the footprints/pawprints/bird tracks, side by side on the sand, making me think how we all share this little bitty planet...
I thought about jellyfish (because of the kelp I picked up) taking over the seas because of humans overfishing around the world... But most of that slid right off my brain due to fatigue, once we got settled back into the classroom. Such is life and Artfest.

Bee also taught us how to carve little stamps (I can see why that's so addictive), and how to pierce the lid of the tin to attach items on the front. And this was with a small hand-cranked drill, not a Dremel! (Maybe if I get one of those, I won't make so much dang noise at 12:30am making art. Nah.)

As usual, things seemed to click for me in class about 2.5 hours before we had to pack up, so I dashed madly to finish up. I had even less ability to think through the panic because I was so damn tired, so Bee kindly helped me finish the ties that keep the journal in place under the tin lid.

Then Bee and LK Ludwig took our (mostly) finished journals to Show and Tell, where everyone gets a chance to see what everyone else has been up to in their classes. One of mine is center row on the left... again, I was so bleary-eyed I didn't even notice my second tin was up in the right corner.
I managed to do one page in that journal before I had to throw myself into the other portions of class. Still amazed that I got anything done, much less two separate tins.

My heart goes out to them

Hadn't planned to paint a plastic heart on Valentine's Day, but it's worked out that way. It'll be part of my Artfest piece. Doesn't it look like a real one in miniature? Either that, or a piece of ABC gum.

I believe that God made chocolate because he loves us and wants us to be happy. (Apologies to Ben Franklin for that one.) But news this Valentine's Day reminds me to be picky about where a chocolatier buys their cacao beans. Jesus, I've been to Ghana. Some of the most beautiful children I've ever seen in my life live there. But endangering the health and lives of children is an acceptable cost of doing business for some corporations.

Maybe George Bush doesn't care about black people, but FEMA does. Today I also found out that FEMA loves black people in Louisiana. After the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention explained that it's bad for humans to live and breathe in formaldehyde-leaching trailers, that is.

Surprise, surprise: I'm not much of a Valentine's Day person. I do buy cards, and I do like receiving flowers. But I'm no longer the type to make valentines for everyone, and I'm more interested in what those little candy hearts say than how many I can fit into my mouth. (Approximately 15.)

Plus, I used to work in TV news. That either cures you of velvet and lace, or it sends you into the deep end of the frilly stuff.

The Husband says he's not a Valentine's Day person either. But he bought me several sci-fi books (they're also for himself; we have very similar tastes) this week, including a sequel that I'm dying to read. And last night, he bought me a pair of avocados [mmm... drool slobber] and a small box of Dilettante chocolates -- the kind he brought me on our first date. He likes how appreciative I am of the just-because gifts he brings home.

It's probably sticking my head in the sand, but these little expressions of love in my life make me feel like there must be enough love in the rest of the world to change the big stuff. The chocolate-from-Third-World-children and formaldehyde-poisoning stuff.

The best Valentine's gift, hands down: The Husband's belief in me as an artist. He even made me an Executive Crafting Kit, which you'll see if you're going to Artfest. It's a briefcase he outfitted with wooden dividers for my supplies, and strips of Velcro and faux red velvet ribbon hold the contents in their respective compartments. Whenever I go arting somewhere, I get ooh's and aaah's and someone invariably says, "Ooh, he's a keeper!"

Yes, he is.

Ba-rock the casbah

So The Husband and The Boy went to caucus for Barack Obama today. Here in Extra-Blue State, the Democratic Party is assigning delegates according to which candidate wins the caucus process. We have a primary, but it's pointless -- your primary vote doesn't get counted in the delegate-assigning process. (The state Republican Party assigns half its delegates at caucus, half through the primary.)

But apparently The Husband waited too long to head out to the caucusing place. He says there were cars parked in every side street, every parking lot, for about two miles around. And you reallyreallyreally don't want to walk that far with a toddler. In the rain.

So he gave up, and called me to rant about how he's tempted to sue the state Democratic Party on the grounds that the process is economically biased against anyone who has trouble participating (need to work, need to find a babysitter, etc.). He talks about suing a lot, but this is because he is Lawyer Spawn.

[See, this is the difference between him and me. I would've parked illegally, gotten a button or sticker or some such for The Boy, taken pictures of him and the crammed parking lots, and then grumbled my way home.]

So this sucks, but on the upside, there are so many people caucusing that Extra-Blue State might line up for the Audacity of Hope.

Hi, Daddy.

Today is the second anniversary of my father's death. He would've been 70 in June of that year. (My mom died seven years prior.)

There's not much to say when both your parents are gone, except "It sucks."

I could write until I keeled over and still not convey their respective essences. I am just not that good of a writer.

It's odd: I feel almost like my father was not someone I knew personally, but a storybook character I grew up with. Which is really bizarre, considering that we were very close, yet I was completely aware of his human flaws. It's just that... I will never be able to hear his opinion about anything important to me again. I can tell him; he can't respond except as a whisper of what I would expect he'd say.

I'm starting to feel the same way about my mother. I suppose it might have something to do with the genealogy research I'm doing, because I'm hearing perspectives from my father's brother and my mother's sister. They're becoming narratives.

I guess I'll light a mental yahrtzeit candle and let it go at that. I'm not Jewish, but I like the idea.

Little arters everywhere

I read the lovely Deryn's post yesterday about blogging passionately, just after I took this picture of the cardboard-and-birdseed feeders at my son's daycare.
Didn't have my camera with me, but The Husband showed me how to transfer my cell phone photo properly. (And of course, your blog host probably offers mobile blogging.) The pic illustrates the comment I made in Deryn's post on successful blogging: carry your camera or camera phone with you to remind you to look for the art around you.

I like reading blogs that show art in everyday life. It could be small-people art on the naked trees... could be your own work or work-in-progress. Nina Bagley is a master of the latter -- in fact, I'd say her blog pictures lean about 8 to 1 in favor of arty bits to photos of finished pieces.

I know sometimes the only photo you feel like posting is one of your own toes, but I believe I've seen more toes in the past year than I have in my entire life. And that's including summer swim team leagues. Scars are interesting, though. Chicks dig scars.

The small, powerful gesture

My father once said I have a talent for the small, powerful gesture.
That's what my aunt (my mother's sister) told me when we were talking, about a week ago.

For Christmas, I sent her a framed copy of a 1947 newspaper photo of my aunt as a child. She's in a group shot of kids, so I put one of these mini-frames around her face. I also included a note about when the photo originally appeared in her hometown paper.

You should've heard my aunt's reaction: apparently the photo had the impact of "an atomic bomb," but in a good way. Auntie N was blown away, and so were her sons when they saw it. And then she reminded me of a small gift I'd given her years ago that she still loves, and told me what my father said when they were talking about it. Apparently he said, "Oh, she's always doing things like that. She's good at finding something little that means a lot."

Auntie N found their friendship (and yes, it was just a friendship) especially comforting after my mom and then Uncle L died... my dad was a terrific listener, with a sly sense of humor. It touched me to hear Auntie N reminisce about my dad, and how I did things to make him proud even when I wasn't trying to impress him.

I've been thinking about the small, powerful gesture a lot these days. What is an ATC if not a small, powerful gesture? I mean my ATC to be a palm-sized gift of what I've observed.

The kind of scrutiny that leads to creative expression can also come back to bite you in the ass, though. I'm reminded of that as I re-read a favorite book, Mixed: My Life in Black And White. Angela Nissel is now a contributing writer for the sitcom "Scrubs", but back in the 1970s and 1980s she was just a half-black, half-white girl painfully aware of the pressure to be either-or. It made her the screamingly funny person she is today, but man -- some parts are hard to read. No, I'm not of mixed race, but I've lived through some of the same small, powerful gestures that life will gift you with, if you're a relatively light-skinned African-American woman.

I guess I bring this all up to say I'm grateful I have so many kinds of art that express the poignancy, humor and beauty I see in my life. And I'm grateful I have the tools with which to experience all of these. I'm well-educated, well-read, middle-class (barely), able to express myself in words and images, and I have people who listen, watch and cheer me on.

I am spoiled, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Good thing I didn't find this earlier

"Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing."
-- Dali

Well, I guess if I'd found this quote earlier, we wouldn't have had the fascinating discussion that started here. Whew. Dodged a bullet.

Crafty

I done learnt a few things about art for sale, after yesterday's holiday craft fair. In order of occurrence in the twisty little corners of my mind:

-- The more expensive items (the full-sized notebooks, as opposed to the palm-sized mini notebooks) sold first. I think that was true of this year's and last year's craft fair. Don't know if that's because people think bigger is better in general, or for this particular type of artwork.

-- I'd like to find something else smallish to alter. Maybe under a certain size, people doubt that something artistic can also be useful? (Other than iPods, that is.)

-- I need to update my Flickr account with my newer stuff.

-- I need business cards or Moo cards. And I need to decide what art I'll put on the cards.

For those of you who have Moo cards, aren't you afraid people will lose them in their purses/bags/pants pockets, and then not know what your contact info is?

This year's craft fair was kinda slow. I blame it on the fact that there was also a craft fair going on simultaneously at the outpatient treatment center of the research institution where I work. The treatment center is uphill -- not a long way, but you know lazy-ass Americans like me. "That's too steep. If I go to both craft fairs, then I have to walk uphill either to get back to my car or to go to the fair up the hill!"

No, I think I'd make the trip. Geez, I'm already there, and the money is burning a hole in my pocket.

Nevertheless, I did make a little cash, and some people didn't sell anything yesterday. The other vendor who was selling notebooks wasn't there this year, so if anyone was interested in a notebook they bought from me. And I pointed some people to my Flickr account so they could order something later. Here's hoping.

I also met a lovely woman named Mary, who's friends with another art friend Stacie (Stacie was one of the co-organizers of the craft fair, as well as a vendor). We got to talking after the fair, andMary said she has a real knack for convincing wholesalers to carry her jewelry. So I asked if I could tag along and see her in action, and she loved the idea.

My brother says I think I need a Ph.D in a subject before I try something new. But preparation + opportunity = "luck." I also learn well from other people's mistakes, which is why my brother's behind saw more spankings than mine did when we were kids.

Probably the best thing about not selling everything at the craft fair: I had said I hoped I'd have a few left over to start the dang Etsy shop. Ask, and ye shall receive, dahling. I'll get this done by the end of this week at the latest. Might not be as purty as everyone else's, but I'm learning once again that sometimes mostly-done is good enough.

Speaking of the in-laws, Nana and Peepaw came over to visit for most of Thanksgiving weekend. It's only our second "family" Thanksgiving, meaning one with relatives as our guests: mostly we've gone elsewhere, or been by ourselves. We had a good time, and no blood was shed. The Husband cooked: turkey tenderloins, collard greens with pancetta (mmmmmmmm...), stuffing, and cranberry sauce from the can (homemade is good too, but it doesn't wiggle enough to be as funny as the canned stuff).

The Boy went to town on the cranberry sauce. The next day, he even ate leftover turkey as long as it was topped with bits of cranberry sauce. And leftover chicken that wasn't breaded nuggets, if it had the beloved sauce bits. And morning oatmeal, with sauce. Good thing we ran out.

Nana and Peepaw have lots of prior experience with (his) grandchildren, so they have a grand old time running around with and reading to The Boy. He's Nana's only biological grandkid, but hopefully my sister-in-law S or I will remedy that soon. Peepaw works out every other day, so he's pretty flexible for over seventy, and Nana just hugs on The Boy and plays until her arthritis pins her to the floor. They've got the tag-team method of Toddler Wrangling down.

The Boy was in denial about Nana and Peepaw going home, so he wouldn't give them hugs when they were leaving. But he came to the door and starting crying when they got into their rental car without him. We cuddled him and reassured him he'd see them when we go to their house this weekend.

Nana also encouraged me to get off my tuchis and get those samples of my notebooks to my friend whose friend owns a local boutique. I told her I was working on it, and that it was too late for the holiday season per se. But Nana said quietly, "you don't know that." Well, we'll see what happens with that. It would be mightily awesome if the boutique peoples want my stuff.

EDIT: Sin of sins! I forgot the sweet potato latkes we had for Thanksgiving! Jaysus, what the heck is wrong with me?! Melt-into-a-blob-o'-happiness good, and the potato starch The Husband uses replaces the usual eggs required for regular latkes. Drool...

What I've learned from Mija

A shout-out to Mija, whose comment in the first What I've learned post tickled the better impulses in my brain [emphases mine]:

it's seems a matter of how we choose to react. if we think someone is copying our artwork, we can be flattered, or we can see it as a way to challenge ourselves in a new direction or we can choose to be angry and bitter and rant about it on our blog.

I think she's better at detaching herself from the crazy-making things in life than I am. Clinging to an idea/way of thinking/person/job can be useful... but... you do run the risk of squeezing the life out of it as well as yourself. I'm better at letting go than I used to be, though. When I finally let go and go with the flow, I'm done with it pretty much forever.

as for the "sharing" implosion... one way we can protect ourselves from creating copycat art, is by taking a hiatus from Somerset Studios for awhile. let's go to another section of the periodicals and let something else inspire us for a change.

Which is what I'm doing, for various reasons. I thought of the above musing when I saw this interview by sfgirlbythebay with Anahata Katkin:

When I get emails from people who are in isolated communities who ask how to begin and feel frustrated- I always tell them that they have an advantage because of their isolation. Not being able to rely on inspiration from others or from the culture means that the stuff is pure and can have a deeper impact on people once you find your groove.

Well, living in the 'burbs of Increasingly Diverseville should make that easier!

What I've learned

This is a great discussion we've got going here about the search for something new, in our own art and in that of our art heroes. Ricë is also struggling with this in her own way, which is to say she's kinda horrified and fascinated at the same time. As am I.

Of course we all copy something from time to time, either as we're learning in a class, or sometime down the road when we don't even remember the original source. And that's because, as Kecia said in the last post's comments, we're human and as mixed media artists we do tend to like some of the same things. (On a totally random tangent: that's one reason why one local newscast tends to have the same content and look as the next.)

But I think one of the most frustrating things for people who've been artists for a long time (say, more than ten years) is a lack of control.

You've worked really hard to figure out your Thing, and then here come hordes of people trying to do exactly what you spent years noodling with and imbuing with your personal meaning. It's diluting your brand, as the marketing people would say. What's so great about the Sistine Chapel ceiling if anyone can buy something similar -- and even worse, watching them replace it once they lose interest?

Another aggravating thing: you don't even know if someone's just sincerely attempting to learn and grow, or if they're just ripping you off because what you do is hot right now and copying is easier than innovating.

But you'd never stop everyone from putting dunce caps on every vintage image (for example), even if you wanted to. Unless you're Disney, and you have an entire division of people who do nothing but hunt down copycats and copyright infringers.

Second, if you're a Name, you never know if a similar artwork really is generated independently from your own work. It does happen all the time, but the chances of that drop in inverse proportion to your renown, don't you think?

That's why some lawyers make a lot of money defending Famous Person X in lawsuits that say he swiped someone else's original work and made millions. (Also why other lawyers make a living just by convincing FPX's lawyers to give them lots of money to drop the lawsuit. And why music sampling in hip-hop was such a huge deal in that business.) Even if it's settled in court, you just never know for sure.

And third, as Kecia said, the retreat business exists because we want to learn how someone else does what they do. Retreats wouldn't exist without newbies -- 'cause there just ain't enough artists out there on the level of a Lynne Perrella or a Michael deMeng who have the time to just get together for a convention.

This is another reason why I think a Room of One's Own is necessary for artists. (Thank you, Virginia Woolf.) You can hear yourself think, so to speak, on more than one level. Once you know what you want to say, you seek out others to share it with them. You sell your stuff, or you teach your techniques, or whatever. But it doesn't get a chance to emerge without the isolation. Without a Room of One's Own, I think you're forced to take over someone else's Room just to be fed creatively -- to search for the Next Big Thing, because you have nothing else. And that's no fair -- or fun -- either.

I think we'll all be fine, even the Name artists who teach. Someone may have taught you everything you know...

but that doesn't mean they've taught you everything they know.

Malaise

I've noticed more and more a frustration in the art blogosphere. Maybe it's just the aftermath of big ol' events like Art & Soul, where you're flooded with the sight of other people's art. Maybe it's the profusion of art blogs (guilty, mostly) that cram even more art input into your brain than usual.

Maybe it's the rush to put together art in time for people to buy holiday gifts. Maybe it's just the damn holidays themselves.

But there's this continual, insistent thread that says, "Get your own damn art! Find your style and stop trying to bite mine already!"

Sometimes it's pretty literal. Sometimes it's a little more indirect. I was going to link to a couple of rants in particular, but I changed my mind. I don't want to make anyone feel like they're being watched through their studio windows.

Nonetheless, there's been quite the hullabaloo at the A&S Yahoo! group recently, for example. People have been discussing the use of photography during class, especially to take "notes." The kind of photos that could end up as the basis for someone else's "original" class.

Jaysus, you'd think posters would say to themselves, "hey, someone's already said pretty much what I've said. I'm going to keep silent." Oh no. Not really. Which leads to this: A couple of people seemed on the verge of lynching one particular artist because her artwork seemed too similar to that of Nina Bagley for it to be mere coincidence.

And it makes me a little nervous too, because I do have an artistic point of view... I do things a little differently from the next artist... but I can feel myself Looking For the Next Big Thing, too. There are wings on all sorts of pieces I've made. Shoot, just look at this. (But I had to use them! They're so pretty, and I'm just trying to stop hoarding my Good Stuff!) I'm just not at the point where you could blindfold yourself and still pick out my stuff from everyone else's. I know I have my thing, but it's not yet my THING.

It looks like we're all suffering a bit from Too Much Information, even the good kind. The studenty types are ravenous for more of anything from the instructory types -- more posts -- more online gallery pics -- more class samples -- more projects more more more. I think the professionals are feeling like they're being eaten alive. The scene is eating itself, and not in a good way.

And the same zines/magazines much of us read -- or are featured in, you-know-who-you-are -- feed the mania. I used to write for a teeny weeny trade magazine (totally different industry) and then for TV. These days, all sorts of media, from TV to magazines to online publications, spend much of their time repurposing stuff. It's not labeled that way, but that's what you're seeing. And it's possible, in this milieu, because so many people are creating so much that there's a niche for every last piece, it seems. And we devour it. So another Special Publication comes out. And another.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to interfere with anyone's livelihood. But I wouldn't be surprised if we see a slowdown in some of the more informal artistic output, like blog posts (or maybe we'll see posts that are more about The Part of Life that Gets in the Way of Art).

Maybe, just for the sake of sanity, maybe we need to keep some stuff secret for a while.

UPDATE: The lovely and insightful new reader Kelly made some interesting comments on this phenomenon. Go see how clever she is.