...thislittlepiggystayedhome...

I wake up in the "middle" of the night with these perfect thoughts about things to write about. As if I am a writer by trade. But I am not. I sometimes think I am nothing by trade. And that thought is what encompasses my day when I wake up. I had the thought of a great novel I could write the other night...wisps of poetry weave through my dreams occasionally...and when I'm really lucky I see a painting fully formed. Paintings are the only thing I seem to be able to actually do anymore. And even those...
These are hard times. I have grown weary of hearing about the economy much the same way it became tiresome when I lived in the mountains to hear "it's the altitude", or when I lived in the desert how it was all blamed on the "dry heat". While we have more than some, and much less than others, the worry of thinking about how we are going to get through the next month with the house in Keats on our back still, or the debt that has piled up that we chip away at with a tiny little nut cracker pick every month, gets to me. I spend so much of my time trying to find jobs right now that it seemingly drains all of my creative energy. I find temporary or part time jobs that never seem to be what they advertised exactly. Even if I could find some sort of really good, full time job, I am not clear what we would do with H. when he wasn't in school. R's job is of the nature that he needs to be somewhat "on call" all of the time, so it's not just as easy as I work at night and on the weekend's... or during the day but only until three. I suppose there are after school type programs we could pay for. But we certainly couldn't pay for them until we I actually had a job that made enough to cover it. And so I look...but since I haven't been "working" for six years, I am not qualified for any job, apparently. Maybe I should start saying I worked at a daycare for the past six years. I am recording this here so I will remember. I will either look back over time and think that I had it much easier back then, or will think that I had it much harder. Hopefully it is the latter.
I have never been one much for painting dark and moody paintings. Color always rears it's head and tries desperately to lighten my mood. Some paintings may come out "dark" but it is never my intention. I have a hard time taking all this anger I feel at our current situation and parlaying it into a painting. Thus, I don't paint much when my thoughts are predominantly like they have been. But I need to. I have to turn over something here in later March to my friend who has an art gallery in Colorado where they will be hanging for three months. I have been in knots thinking about how I don't have a "series", how they all seem so "different", how they are all such varied sizes...the list goes on and on. How I won't have "enough".... and all those thoughts make me dwell on my "lack of training"... But I persevere anyway, because I have to. There are worse things that I would "have" to do. Incidentally, I have very similar thoughts about writing things in this blog. Like right now. "But it isn't really about art...", or "I am complaining too much" or "It's all disjointed"....
Which brings me to a point. Or "my" point... or "the thought I need to keep in mind"...
I started painting out of joy. It was a break from what I had spent my life learning and absorbing, which was the Theatre. I got a degree in Theatre because I was so close to it by the time I had a very strong realization that I wanted to pursue fine art. I remember at the time I very purposefully did not want to go to school. I did not want the bureaucracy of academics to take away my fire for painting the same way it had taken away my love for the Theatre. But, even without the academic training, the more you create, the more you sell, the more you think about it, you can't help but have these little thoughts creep into your mind trying to criticize your vision and say it has to be a certain way that you had nothing to do with creating. That is what I want to put a stop to.
I woke up in the middle of the night the other night and had the thought that everything I am regarding painting is about memory. The very nature of painting has to be about memory. Even if it's a plein aire painting outside in the moment of conception, there is still an element of memory to it. However, my painting's are more about memory in a rather obtuse sort of way. Perhaps I need to figure out how to connect that in words so the viewer can experience that "series" sort of feel that everyone is always talking about. But I see that connection in each piece that I create. I am not able to paint the same thing over and over again. I suppose I should try, but I wonder why every time I think that. Ultimately, for me, all my paintings could probably be summed up with the underlying thought that they are all just about "grasping at straws". Think about that. The theme is "grasping at straws"....
Which is what I am doing right now I suppose. I had no set agenda for what I was going to write when I sat down. I approached it the same way I used to write poetry when I was a kid. I put the blank sheet of paper in front of me, and stared.
I do know that I have realized that I will not keep this blog updated if I make it only about posting art, because the truth is there can be great lulls in making art. And the truth is I need to "talk" about it. Even if it's just grasping at straws in order to figure it all out.

Just another day...

Because I have a six year old boy, Halloween descends upon me like a storm of lightning and fire and mayhem that I even though I see it coming, I don't see it coming. Because my little world doesn't do it like we did when we were kids, there are more than one events to choose from besides the official "real" night of trick or treating. On the 30th we went to the downtown shindig that our local town throws. Hundreds of kids parading around in thin costumes through icy temperatures up and down the main street, stepping into warm storefronts for seconds at a time and collecting candy bars. Seems like everyone is giving out the "good stuff" anymore, as opposed the select few. Butterscotch's are a thing of the past, which would disappoint my dad greatly if he were around to rifle through my son's pumpkin. (I can't even say paper bag...as that has changed too.)

The next day....or the "real" Halloween started a day long adventure. We were headed to our old town so we could attend a birthday party for my best friend's son's birthday part on November 1st. I figured we might as well go the day before and then we could trick or treat around my old neighborhood where I had spent many a Halloween walking up and down the bumpy brick sidewalks. We spent the afternoon with my friends who arranged my art show that I just did, and H. got to play with their bevy of six kids. I guess this is where the exhaustion set in. ;) We followed that up with actual trick or treating on the said 'ol stomping grounds, spent the night w/ my sister and her little daughter. We woke up to standard time and a fabulous huge breakfast and a beautiful day. I raked leaves for the sole purpose of the kids being able to jump in them and play. A perfect Fall day. That evening we went to the birthday party at the local gym/playground thing and H. jumped right in to the festivities of playing with ten little boys that he didn't really know, save one. He's not shy, my boy. Though I'm not sure what the kids thought of him. I could tell some of them warmed up to him quickly...but one or two were put off by him a bit. It made me sad to think that the way we are as humans can start that early in life. That too has changed. Or perhaps I wasn't aware of it when I was little. I remember that kids made fun of the way I laughed when I was little. And I can tell that H. has a strikingly similar laugh, and that the kids don't quite know what to make of it. Perhaps because he is a boy he is not as sensitive as I was? Only time will tell. As an adult I still, strangely wince when someone tells me how great they think my laugh is. Because for some reason, as adults, people seem to like it. Maybe because they don't hear laughter as much any more. Exhausted, we drove home, listening to the new Muse album, which H. now can sing the first couple of songs with full gusto, slightly off key in a six year old kind of way, and filling my heart with joy.

I am telling you this because the weekend was about H. The joy of getting handed more candy then a mommy would ever hand out to her kid in a full year. (my sister was completely aghast when I reported that I let H. do what I had always done when I was a kid...which was come home that first night, dump all the candy out into the middle of the floor, and eat as much if it as I wanted. Try it sometime...it's freeing.) Dressing up in silliness, whether store bought or put together by hand. The joy of seeing friends dressed up, peering at them to recognize them. Halloween is one of the main, simple joys of growing up a kid in America. It is also my favorite brother's birthday. (okay, so I only have one brother...)

But now there is an undercurrent that was not there before, when I was a footloose and fancy free kid. There is a constant running sadness the lingers in and out of my days around Halloween that will never go away. It catches me in the throat when I least expect it. And H. doesn't comprehend why my eyes will suddenly fill with tears. I am a good actress and I put on a brave front, but at some point, I take a breath and wish most heartily that my father was still alive. Sometimes it is hard to believe that he is watching over me, or around me, or in a world that I simply can't see. Sometimes I wish that he had just died on a normal day... a day that had no attachments to it already. Dia De Los Muertos was probably one of my father's favorite celebrations...he loved all things Mexican, and tequila once upon a time. So it has seemed fitting for the past nine years to note that he left this physical world on November 1st. But for some reason it always just wings by me...in the rush to make sure that Halloween is all that my little boy could want.

Perhaps today I will build a little altar. I don't have any beer in the house to leave. Besides it would have to be Milwaukee's Best anyway. Royce still smokes on occasion though...so there might be a cigarette I could find and place there. I loved my father so much. I wish everyone could have known him. I will miss him until the end of my days. And I dearly hope that I will see him again.

MIA but the action never stops...

I have been MIA from this blog for awhile now, haven't I? I think I just got so exhausted from thinking about art and my art show in Garden City that I needed to take a bit of a break from thinking about it all. That fine line between creating and marketing can be a drain, as I'm sure almost any artist/crafter would agree. It causes moments of great angst in me, and also euphoric highs. Just depends on the weather, I guess. The show was a great success for me... it's always a thrill to see your work on a wall in a gallery, and when it's entirely devoted to your work, well that's a wow! It was a small intimate space, beautifully lit, and there were several more people attending the reception than I thought there would be since it was a closing reception. I can't remember why now that I said it would be easier to be there for a closing one instead of an opening one, so I guess that just shows you how the days pass. (This morning my son said to me that he could hardly believe that it was just October 1st the other day and now it was the 30th...) If you ever happen to be in Garden City, Kansas you should consider going and hunting down the Mercer Gallery on the campus of the community college there and checking out whatever the show might be. David Kinder is the painting teacher and the gallery curator, and was quite an interesting artist to talk with. Brian McCallum is the ceramics teacher and director of the art program there, and more importantly an old friend, who is also equally interesting to talk to about art. Just sayin'...you might be stuck in a snow storm there as I write this. ;) Here are a couple of pictures from the show:

A little longer than 140 characters....

Today I am a trifle sick. Started yesterday...scratchy throat, general tiredness... I need it to go away because I am at the end of getting together my paintings for my solo show in Garden City, Kansas at the Mercer Gallery on the Garden City Community College campus. I am excited to be having a show. Who wouldn't be? Recently I have "discovered" Twitter. I'll admit I stayed away from it for a long time because well, let's see, originally my husband used to do it. Waaaay back about three or four years ago. I have to wonder if it was back when it was invented or something. I gave him a lot of trouble for it. I mean the name "twitter" and the whole "tweets" think seemed silly to me at the time. It was him and a bunch of librarians, so I wasn't really opening my eyes to the potential. And then as time went on I realized that there were just tons of people on Etsy and the like who were always raving about it too. However, this still didn't stir my interest. It just seemed like one more self promotion type thing...or the opposite like Etsy is, where for some reason you're supposed to "self promote" by doing no such thing and rather bending over backwards to promote other sellers. Perhaps this is an unpopular thing to say, but this is sometimes how I feel. (Either way, I find that self promotion when you are trying to sell something gets old. I worry that I am bothering people too much, at the same time that it is an evil necessity because if I don't do it, people will never buy anything. But, believe it or not, the whole reason I ever joined Etsy in the first place was to share my paintings more than to sell them. Don't get me wrong though...I can always use the extra money. I guess the sharing thing is exactly why I don't get into the whole "relisting" aspect of Etsy. I think it's a waste of time and energy.)
Anyway, back to Twitter...I finally succumbed. It came at a time when I was trying to promote (there's that word again) the fact that I finally started offering prints of art in my two shops. (see sidebar) However, along the way, I discovered something much different and quite pleasing. I can't quite remember where it started exactly, but I started to realize that there were all these artists on twitter that were just artists, sharing their work. Yeah, some of them sell through sites like me, and some just sell through their blogs, and some don't sell at all...at least not via anything on the internet that I can see. Some are just there sharing. Sharing ideas, and quotes, and work, and thoughts, and support about art. I love it. It's like the thing I was hoping to find on the internet about art, I finally found. If that makes any sense. I suppose I could have found it if I'd just tried a little harder... but it gave me that quick passport to it. I kind of wish I'd joined sooner.
Another thing I've discovered via twitter is this "other" place to blog. Needed that like a hole in the head. I like the way it's set up though, and I've been posting the paintings that I'm going to have in my show there. It's not quite complete as I still have some more photo's to take...but have a look if you would like a look.

http://miriamgraceclimenhaga.posterous.com/

http://twitter.com/climenhaga

And so it goes...

I wake up at 5:30 a.m. now. I used to get up at "around" 8:30 or 9:00...whenever Harrison woke up really. But, he needs to be on the bus by 7:15, so now I wake up at 5:30. I tried telling him I could take him to school. The ride wouldn't be as long...he could sleep in a whole extra hour, if not an hour and a half... he doesn't want to because he really wanted to ride a school bus. He has friends on there already that are a year or two older, or in a different kindergarten class, so this is his only time to see them. He's starting early on that "old guy sitting around the coffee shop at the crack of dawn shooting the sh*t" thing.
So I wake up at 5:30. Originally it was to get him up... let him watch "BAKUGAN" and that's the only time of the day it's on. (Don't ask...) But he now favors "Ben 10" which is after Bakugan. But now I'm used to getting up at 5:30. So I get up and make coffee...and it's dark outside. The cat is up, the dog wants outside. All mundane tasks that millions of people go through every day but for me is brand new, because it's been probably since I was 17 that I have gotten up this early. Why is it so easy to settle into a new habit, but so hard to break the old one in the first place?
He gets up and watches Ben 10. And then he eats. And then he gets dressed. Somewhere in here he starts arguing with me, and the sun starts to come up. This morning it is more of a stage with the lights rising, as it's raining a fine mist and no sun is to be seen. The light just appears. Slow fade in to green trees just ready to turn to Fall. Layers of Payne's grey in strips on the horizon. He doesn't want to change his pants once I discover a huge stain right on the crotch that I missed before. Looks like soup that spilled or something. He keeps trying to run to the computer and get on it, which there is no time for. He refuses to put his own socks on today, even though he just did it yesterday. "Did you brush your teeth?" "Yes." ...I'm dubious. I go to put on some pants so I'm not wearing pj's out by the bus, though I don't know why I really care, and when I come back in he's stuffing a homemade peanut butter cookie in his mouth from the batch I made last night. "Did I say you could eat a cookie?" "I'm not eating a cookie.". "Don't lie." "I'm not lying."
And so it goes...
It's all a sudden rush to get out the door. The realization that it actually is raining. The thought that I really do need to buy an umbrella for him, and why haven't I ever in the past? I see he's gotten chocolate all over his pants that I made him change into. I remember his glasses...and dash in to get them. We walk across the expanse of yard to the road to meet the bus, arguing all the way about tiny, silly things, and wait.
The rain is fine and slow. I put the hood of the jacket he doesn't want to wear over his head to keep him dry. He wants to know where the sky goes when it gets done raining. I try to point out the grey clouds moving to the right. He suddenly steps into me and lays his head on my stomach as we are standing there, and snuggles. We aren't cold. Just close. I remind him gently that it would be nice if he told his teacher today that he was sorry for misbehaving right when he got out of school yesterday. I had gone to pick him up for the first time, and the change I guess rattled him and he acted out. But I told him that it was up to him. Sometimes we need to say we're sorry only when we mean it, and on our own terms. And that he is growing up now, every day, and it's a new world for him. He looks up at me and says "I want you to be my teacher." and then snuggles his head into me again. "(aww) I will always be your teacher...and if I'm not with you then I am your teacher right here in your heart." "And if you ever need a question answered, I will help you." Everything is soft for a moment. The rain is sweet, and the Earth is silent. The green of the fresh mown grass is striking against the barbed wire fence and the field that is allowed to grow wild right next to it. For a second I think about asking him if he wants to be homeschooled again, and then I think better of it. We just enjoy the moment huddled against each other. "I love you."...and in the tiniest voice of barely a whisper "I love you, too."....
The silence is broken by the faint motor of the bus and then it's shiny roof appears at the hill just ready to break it and roll down the road towards us. He hugs me a moment longer and then when the bus is more visible he breaks aways and goes to stand closer to the road. He gleefully jumps on and says hello to the driver. Usually he scurries into his front seat, but today he turns around and standing starts waving at me. Then he sits down and continues waving at me furiously through the window. The doors shut, the driver pulls forward. The bus lumbers on down the road towards the East...crests another hill...and is gone.
The dog runs up to me and nudges me, ready to go back inside.
And so it goes.

I want my art to mean something. While it always starts from a moment of color, over time it develops into some sort of symbolic thing to me. I am not always good at articulating what that is, but I am getting better. I have tried to paint what is in front of me...and I just can't do it. Which means I don't want to. Well, let me qualify...I can, I just find it kind of boring to do. I admire realism in others work, greatly...it's just not for me. What makes us like this? Why do we see what we see? I had the realization about five minutes ago that most of my current paintings have some sort of theme about death, to them. I will have to describe why in a later post.... I'm just not prepared to do that right now.


However, on the other hand...I was just remembering my dad quoting Archibald MacLeish when I was a child: "A poem should not mean...but be."

;)

M

Testing...testing...

So I changed this from http://juneblue.blogspot.com to http://miriamclimenhaga.blogspot, as I mentioned previously. But it did make it so if you put in the juneblue address it says that it doesn't exist, instead of just going to the miriamclimenhaga blah blah blah. I guess I should have known this...
So for now I am just posting something to post. Because I have nothing to say. Or everything. I have a lot going on that I would like to share. Both about art and about just living and my little boy going to kindergarten.
I will have to measure how to go about talking about what, when. I'm kind of the type of person that easily switches subjects while talking. I've been accused, more than once, of taking the long way around the story. This would be something I inherited from my father I suppose. ;)
For now...I've got my draft coming up for my fantasy football...yes, my fantasy football...and I am watching my son pretend play "Dude What Would Happen!". Have you watched "Dude What Would Happen"? Let me show you....

What's in a name?

In my never ending quest to switch my online presence from being named "juneblue" to being called by my real name...I have changed the blog name of this blog from juneblue to miriamclimenhaga.blogspot.com. I'm not really sure how that affects things on this blog...like followers and what not. But here's hoping it's a smooth transition. As with all things, it will all work out eventually.

When I was a teenager we had a dog (a boxer) named Ms. She would bark at pretty much nothing, all.the.time. If she thought she heard the wind outside the door, she had a bark for that. My dad would often go to the door and open it and say "Why it's June Blue from Kalamazoo!" Meaning there was no one there, of course...and imaginary figure. I thought it had a nice ring to it back when I was trying to be "anonymous" online. Then I started to think more along the lines of "what's the point?". I suppose this realization came as I started talking more and more about my art, and posting it, and trying to sell it.... There seemed to be a confusion there about my name being June or being Miriam. I have always loved my name as well. In part because of who I was named after, and in part because of my deep appreciation for my the family that I came from. It was for this reason that when I got married I chose to keep my maiden name, regardless of the fact that my married name would be a heck of a lot easier to spell and deal with. So to be going around online by a name that I just thought was a cute sort of anonymous name seems silly to me now. I am proud of my life as it has become. I am proud to be an artist. I need to honor who I am by just being that...which means going by my name. Some of you know I've debated this for awhile. I think I've told that story about June Blue a few times... so here's to June Blue from Kalamazoo! And here's to Miriam Climenhaga from Kansas!


(change your settings accordingly! ;) )


~M

Thank you, Mr. Winkler.

Today I was playing with art. Since I'm an artist by trade, it might seem odd to say I was playing with art....but all you creative types must know what I mean. Sometimes you get so involved in trying to make everything perfect, that you don't allow yourself to play at all. I see on blogs definitely two types of artists...one is the type that takes themselves way too seriously, and the other is the type that does nothing but play. For me, I have to find some sort of balance in between those two. Of course, this is somewhat of an exaggeration...but it does, somedays, seem to be that way. Since I've been working on pieces for my solo show coming up in October (at Garden City Community College in Garden City, Ks. if any of you happen to be in the area...) ;) I have been stressing and doing the way too serious thing. So today (well it kinda started last night) I "forced" myself to quit thinking so much, and just do. For some reason I always seem to get to this happy place when I play with tissue paper. I think I've been fascinated w/ tissue paper since I was a young girl and my sister brought home some tissue paper flowers that her class had made in school. I have still never learned how to make those things, and every now and then run across them and I still want to know how to make them! Anyway, I had played with some watercolor last night...something else I don't do much of anymore is watercolor...and today went back to it and started messing with some tissue paper. When I'm done with it, I'll post it here...it's drying right now though. So while I was playing with bright colored tissue paper and watercolors I had this realization. I realized that Mr. Winkler, my fifth grade teacher, is really the person responsible for my becoming an artist. Not only was he the kind of teacher who told you constantly that you could grow up to be whatever you wanted to be, he was also the only teacher I ever had that actively encouraged his students to be creative. And to read. He ended up becoming the librarian at my grade school, and remained so until he retired. His class was by far the most unstructured class I ever had. It was the luck of the draw that I got into that class. He had an old upright piano in his room that we were all allowed to play on freely during free times. We had free times. Looking back I have this sinking feeling that they don't let teachers behave the way he did anymore... We had extended reading times right after lunch recess where he would read to us while we sat and drew or painted whatever we wanted. He supplied endless amounts of paper. I remember he loved "The Hobbit" so much that he read it to us three different times throughout the school year. It was terribly easy to talk him into an extra chapter each day. He was singular. While all the other teachers I had seem to sort of run into each other in my memory, in terms of the way they taught, Mr Winkler was an anomoly. Truly one of a kind. There was never a bad day in that class. He had sparkly eyes, and white blonde hair, and he showed Siamese cats on the weekend's and always provided his old trophy's to us as "rewards" for mini contests for poetry, etc. Everyone got one. Everyone felt special. I wonder if he is still alive? I'll have to find out... I truly don't think I would have become an artist without his allowing me to play with art every day. Sixth grade was fun, but it was kind of a disappointment.... Mr. Anderson taught me everything I know about division and fractions. ;)

Ramble On....

I have a playlist embedded in this site that I vary the songs on. Currently it is Led Zepplin's "Ramble On". I think through out my adult life I have found that song to be somewhat of a theme for me.
I spend a lot of time looking at things on the computer and not accomplishing much of anything.
My thoughts are random and disconnected.
I jump from paying attention to my child, to thinking about a project that I am not working on, to doing the dishes, to standing in the middle of the room and just staring, with the same ease until I realize that by the end of the day I have not accomplished one thing.
This is really starting to bother me.
I want every minute to count, to be full of something great.
Which reminds me...what did I hear last night at 1:00 am on the tv show on Bravo called "The Fashion Show"? (Yeah, add insomnia to the list too...) I love how you get gems off shows like that. Anyway....I think it was a woman who was the main poo~ba for Harper's Bazaar or some such magazine that said something to the effect of "good is the enemy of great". Ain't it the truth. At least I think so. I was sitting there staring at a painting that I am working on, trying to decide where exactly to put the next cloud....when this line was said. I'm not quoting it exactly, but it's the gist of it. The thought that to just accept good means you never achieve great. I know my mind works that way. Now this is not to say that every single thing I create is great....but it is to say that my brain is always working that way...hoping to achieve that....looking for the thing (like where the next cloud should go) that will make the painting great, as opposed to just good.
Which reminds me....that a friend the other day asked me where I got my ideas for paintings, and was surprised when I said from my head. She wanted a reference point, but the reference point is my head. I spend long hours gazing at landscapes outside my windows, while driving, in books. I spend my whole life looking actually, at everything. But I very rarely think to sit down and actually look at an object in order to paint it. I was surprised that she was surprised. Which is a good thing, because it is always a good thing to be brought back to the reality that not everyone thinks the same way, or sees the same way.
We as humans, can become very self absorbed. I know I can. I don't like it really...feel I should push myself out of it when I realize I am being like that.

I think I need to allow myself the latitude that this blog of mine is a place where I can be disconnected and it doesn't matter...where I can "ramble on"....where I can allow myself to fail, or just be good, and not great. I need to find some answers to some of the questions that I seek, and it doesn't seem to be workng to keep it all inside of my head.

Now, where to put that cloud.

Gus

Someday's there is nothing that gives me greater happiness than seeing my dog, Gus, running across the huge expanse of yard we are currently living with, towards me. A horse's gallop, tongue hanging out. Fresh from exploring the woods.
I love where we live for now. Since we moved last year, unsure of how long we would stay since every new move brings unknown possibilities, or where we would want to live if we ended up staying "forever", we decided to rent. Now I'm thinking renting is the way to go and am not sure I ever want to own a house again. Well, maybe that's not true. It would be fun to own this house we are in... It's just that this house is beyond our means if we were to buy it, but not beyond our means to rent it. How does that work anyway? Oh yeah, something to do with the almighty credit score. Anyway, in addition to all of that, we still own our old house anyway, and my sister is graciously renting it at the moment. So. For now. We are renting this lovely house out in the country, on five acres, and the dog is in heaven and thinks we have done all of this just for him.

And someday's there is nothing that gives me greater happiness than seeing my dog, Gus, running across the huge expanse of yard, towards me, a horse's gallop, tongue hanging out... Fresh from exploring the woods.

Freedom's just another word....

Art can be such a conundrum. I find myself in front of a canvas, or a piece of paper, afraid to lay down the first mark. There is a deep seated desire inside of me to make every mark count, to not "ruin" it, to make the painting or drawing immediately spring to life with no mistakes in sight. Yet I have no specific plan as to what I want to draw or paint. Because the moment I lay down the first mark I enter into the world of "freedom". Where everything that follows is a happy accident, a seduction of color, a mesmerizing experience of "what will happen next?". And mistakes follow....marks that I didn't mean to happen...erasing or covering up...which produce new directions and thoughts and shapes of things to come. And somehow out of all of that overthinking and worrying and such, something is produced that I look at and think to myself "I like it!". And then I wonder if others will? I used to think that theatre and fine art were two whole different worlds. I don't think that so much anymore. You still have to put yourself out there in the end. Well, I suppose you don't. But I've never been much of an Emily Dickinson type. I never understood how she could put to paper such beautiful thoughts, but never share them with a soul. The whole process of creating art....whatever that art may be...is such a painful one. At the same time that it feels like such a release to put it out there and make it part of the world.

The garden is this huge strip that we have no idea what we are doing with... But it's fun! We are growing tomatoes, basil, peppers, onion, collard greens, lettuce, carrots, beets, cucumber, eggplant, squash, watermelon....am I forgetting something? Wish us luck. Oh and we planted late.


The first tomato...


There's a dinosaur behind those onions...




lettuce.


I used to think I wanted to make a children's book. Harder than I thought? I painted three "pages" and part of a fourth, but never returned. This was back in1995, I believe. Her name is Minerva, and I always thought she resembled too much of Peppermint Patty.


A work in progress....
(that's not a real tattoo folks, just in case there was any doubt.)

wondering...

Okay, so I'm the artist, right? I can do anything I want to, to my painting, right? So if I want to take a painting that is about a year old, and add to it...because I keep looking at it and thinking "well I shoulda done this!"...I can do that, right?

Rose

One of the things that happens to me a lot is that I get ahead of myself. I get a thought and I go with it and then it brings on all these other thoughts, and before I know it I have lost sight of the original thought. This happened to me yesterday as I went looking for a piece of art that I own that was made by an artist by the name of Rose Johnson. Sadly, Rose died a few days ago, and very tragically. (Here is a link...) I didn't know Rose very well. She was someone who moved to Bisbee, Arizona, where I used to live with my husband (and where we were married) towards the end of our living there. I would see her every now and then...just like everyone, but a friendship never really came to be. Just ran in different circles I guess. I lived in Bisbee for three years, and one of the things I think is so interesting about my time there is that I rarely painted. I set up a room as a studio like I always do, but I barely glanced at it. And Bisbee is a happening arts place, too. Maybe I was intimidated by it? I don't know. I did do a lot of Theatre there. I also taught Theatre at the local community college with my dad. And I do know that for some reason, in my life, Theatre and Art just don't seem to mix. I can't ever seem to manage to do both at the same time.

When we got married we had this awesome wedding. It was completely on a shoestring and the reception was in the hallway of the old grade school that was now used for artist studios. For all I know, Rose had a studio there. I'm not really sure. She was the girlfriend of this guy we knew...and now it escapes my memory as to why we knew him. I guess, he too, was just another local that everyone got to know there. My husband managed a coffee shop there for quite awhile...a lot of people come and go in coffee shops. I don't remember Rose being there at the wedding, but she could have been. She was always just this really kind person that was somehow in the background of my life. And she was a wonderful artist. Only, I don't think I realized that until she gave us this small little piece that was matted. And that is what I was looking for yesterday. It's about 5"x7", and every time I run across it tucked safely into one of my many boxes of things I want to keep, I think I need to frame it. I'm sure that's the last thought I had about it. And I'm sure it's somewhere or another around here. But my going to look for something like that in one of my boxes....well....

It took me down a different road. I realized that my entire life is boxed up in about two or three boxes. Makes me think of that line from that Sugarland song. (And Sugarland is probably the only country band I've ever actually listened to, btw) "Pictures, dishes and socks It's our whole life down to one box."
In the boxes were letters that my pen pal from being a little girl were still tied up with string. I'm always wondering what happened to that girl. And letters and cards, and clippings of shows, and stuff that was supposed to go into scrap books I suppose. A lot of it isn't necessary to keep anymore...but with each looking into that box, new things go, and old things stay. I found a drawing that I did just a few years ago. I would have sworn that I sold that drawing. And I "remember" who I sold it to. I've used it often as a profile pic on blogs and such, and have lamented the fact that I sold it without getting a good picture of it. And there it was, tucked inside of an envelope with and xray of my hand from when I broke my hand. I guess it's good proof that I am getting older and with age comes memory loss. Selective and otherwise. I was happy for the finds. It gave me answers to ideas for paintings that I've had, and new ideas as well...all those little pieces of paper with old poems, and scribbles have their place in my now, if I let them. I also found several pieces of art that were given to me by another artist, who is also now dead. A girl I barely knew (but I knew her husband) and for some reason sent me many letters that had photo copied pieces of art work she had done in them. She was an amazing artist, and a troubled soul who committed suicide. I never knew then why she singled me out to send stuff to, and I still wonder. She wrote me completely out of the blue and introduced herself via a letter. Perhaps there is something in this that I am missing? Perhaps fellow artists recognize each other better than others, or want to make that connection? I know I feel that now but am not sure how to connect to some people. You feel a kinship, but are shy to say so. If I put myself back in the time period of when Laura and Rose would have given me their art work, I can safely say that not only was I in a fog in general, but I was definitely not "mature" enough to recognize the hand reaching out.

I didn't find the painting that Rose gave us for our wedding. I suppose it will require and even deeper search, and I thought I had hit everything pretty hard. But I know I still have it. I can see it in my minds eye. It was of a woman....I'll post it here when I can find it. In the mean time, I want to thank her. With everything there is that "chain reaction"...and with looking for her artwork, I discovered something new and more about myself. Even though I knew in the back of my mind it was all hidden in those boxes...well, you just have to open up sometimes and look in...you know?

She was such a lovely woman...an incredible artist. One of those people that you can visualize walking around...rather ethereal.

Please take a moment to look at her art. I think that is what any artist would want, isn't it?

Belleza Gallery
JaneHamiltonFineArt
Remembering Rose

working, working, working....

Since my son is currently attending a "kindergarten academy" to prepare him for kindergarten, (I could digress here about how odd I think this even exists...but I'll just leave it at that.) I am getting a taste of what life will be like starting in the Fall, full time. Yesterday I completely cleaned and rearranged the basement, and this morning at the unheard of hour (for me) of 7:30 am, I finished up cleaning up my studio. After painting this morning for awhile, I moved into actually fooling around with this blog a bit. I would like to get back into blogging for many reasons, but have been a little slow on the uptake. I think in three days time (that's how many days H. has gone to school) I have figured out that "energy" and "work ethic" and "desire" all seem to have something to do with my getting my butt out of bed at an early hour. Who would have thunk it? Not me, apparently.

The whole "social networking" thing can be a bit irritating occasionally... I mean, it seems like it takes more time to do things like blogging, and Facebook, and updating shops, etc. than it takes to actually paint or create something. I'm sure anyone who is reading this that is also an artist, can appreciate what I am saying. But regardless of how introverted I can be about my art, or what my art means to me...the actor in me always knows that we create to show to an audience. The trick is being willing to hear the bad with the good. The thing I've noticed though, is that blogging can also help my creativity levels...like give me goals...as long as I don't let the thought that I have to participate in challenges and the like take over my thought processes. It seems to be a careful balance for me.... So that said....

I have a lot of thoughts rumbling around that I would like to share about art...and get opinions on...but for now, with my blog, I would like to have a sort of "do over". I suppose to really start a clean slate I should consider deleting all old posts...but then I wouldn't have them to look back on, and I do believe that blogging ultimately is just another fancy word for journaling. It's always good to go back and revisit things occasionally, after all.

But in the interest of "starting at the beginning" with this blog, which I primarily consider a place to share my art and my feelings about it, as well as other people's art....I will share pictures of my newly cleaned and set up studio space! I had to move it from where it was because I found I abosolutely had to have windows. I can't believe I actually tried to set up a studio space without windows the last time I went through this....

View from the doorway...


would you believe it's clean? It really is!!!


I just put the goofy record player on here...it might not stay...but I have plenty of albums to play!


I really do know exactly where everything is! This is a cabinet that I remember being in my nursery when I was a baby...very sentimental am I. Inspiration on the walls...and a couple of paintings I'm working on.



My son painted this. It is, of course, my favorite!

in a week....

A lot can happen in a week. I went to NYC last week for 7 days, and took a train. The train takes you to land you haven't seen, slows you down, lets you think. I arrived in happiness. I had forgotten to bring my charger for my phone though, so I was "cut off" for a day until I could buy another...yay! Add it to my collection. But as soon as I was able to charge it up, I realized I had three frantic messages from my best friend back home. Her brother had unexpectedly died. He was only 37, leaving a wife and a new baby behind. I felt terrible....this is a friend I had always promised to be there for if anything like this (like death...as it happens to us all) should happen to her. But I was helpless and really unable to arrive. Of course she understood, but it hurt me none the less. And so the week progressed.
First a long conversation with a friend about how we are all connected. Then I went to see the play "Exit the King" by Eugene Ionesco. It starred Geoffrey Rush and Susan Sarandon. Well, to me it starred Geoffrey Rush. What an incredible actor because at no time did you really think about the fact that it was Geoffrey Rush. Anyway, the play, as you are most likely unfamiliar with it (I know, there's a few...) is entirely about a mythical king, dying. It's an absurdest play (my favorite kind). I suppose I would venture to say that the general "theme" was to not worry too much about dying, because it is inevitable. Something we all know deep down, but few of us wish to concentrate on, or think about for more than a nano second. It is, indeed better, to enjoy life while you can. (At this point I would highly recommend that you go back to the top and read the quote in the header of this blog). And so the week progressed. I saw my aunt I had not seen since I was twelve. I hung out extensively with my best friend from college (it was she who had brought me there) and we talked and laughed, and ate, ate, ate.... I connected with many friends from college...as they seem to have all moved to NYC. I listened. The world never stopped, and exhausted I got back on the train to come back home. I had long conversations with three people I had never met. It is amazing how on the train one doesn't necessarily have conversation that are the mere pleasantries of how we talk in day to day life with strangers. Suddenly the door swings open to have that serious conversation that you are always hoping to have. Suddenly you learn life stories of people that you will never see again...and that's okay. I have a feeling that most go through these exchanges without ever learning names. But I don't believe in such things. Calista was the first person I met, on the way there....there was another girl from Oklahoma, who was studying to be a doctor, but perhaps I neglected to ask her name. On the way back it was Angel, Irma, and Jean.... I wish I could fully explain these conversations I had with them, but it would be impossible. I can only say that they reaffirmed my belief that everything happens for a reason.

And eventually and finally I was back at home with my son greeting me at the station with my husband. My son cried because he was so happy I was back, and that was a great thing. So the bustle is gone, and I'm just sitting here writing this. The cool breeze is back on a sunny day. I live in the country, far away from tall buildings and millions of people. The cows are grazing on the neighboring farm. And my friend...her brother is now gone, and he was not before I left. I have known both of them since I was teenager. He died in his sleep. I hope he was dreaming of something that made him happy.

Random Blah Blah Blah....

Well I have taken the baby step towards trying to start "blogging" again. The first step is to commit to only blogging here. I can't really handle more than one blog, and I don't really want to keep copying the same post to all and so on and so forth. So since I like the look and feel of blogspot I'll just go with this. What this means for this blog is that it might not be all about my art, as originally intended. However, I get the feeling from a lot of what I've read about this oh so fascinating subject, that people find blogs that are only about a persons art to be somewhat boring anyway. Believe me, I think my life is probably way more boring...but you never know. Another thing I want to do "new" is to point out, and feature other artist's that I am seeing around too. That seems like a good way to jump off from being a blog that's "only about me". However, on the opposite side of the stream...I don't really understand blogs that are only that. I mean, at some point you need to share something about yourself? Right? There must be a happy medium. One thing I'd like to share with you right now, about myself, and perhaps get your opinion on if you are reading this...is my name "juneblue" that I came up with awhile back. I came up with that name originally so as to not be using my real name on my blog. This makes me laugh somewhat now. And then it parlayed into being my shop name over on etsy. And then the longer I've been on etsy, the more feedback I've achieved....so I'm somewhat reluctant to chuck the whole name....but I am tired of it. Even though etsy is the cause of why I am tired of it, I am still reluctant to chuck it. I don't even make sense to myself. The reason I don't like it is because, well, it's not my name. It's an inside joke that is only funny to me as to why I selected "juneblue" in the first place, and it has a nice ring to it....but I am bugged by how many people on etsy (and other places) actually seem to think my name is June. (Not that there is anything wrong with the name June) It's not! It's Miriam. I guess I naively thought that people would still take the time to call me by my real name. I don't think I realized how much it might end up bugging me. So do I start over on etsy? Change my shop name, and forget about the feedback? Or do I keep the etsy shop as is, and just change everything else to my real name? Or do I just leave it all and keep it the way it is right now? I have set up a shop on 100omarkets that is just my name...I could move over there all together. Boy, aren't these burning and interesting questions? lol! Oh well...it doesn't matter...welcome to the world of how I blog when the blog is just whatever, and not just about art. ;)

In other news: I'm going to NYC next week for a week! I'm scared and nervous in some ways as I have never been away from Harrison for more than one night. And then it was only an hour and a half away. I am looking forward to going to the MOMA, and seeing two Broadway shows. I'll be hanging out mostly with my best friend from college, but I'm also taking a day trip w/ my brother to visit an aunt I haven't seen since I was 12! That's a long time....should be interesting and a lot of fun!

Given my snails pace at blogging anymore at all...don't count on seeing much of me until after I get back. ;)

Happy Trails!

Miriam

In the blink of an eye....

Time passes.
When people ask I usually say I'm a self taught artist. This is mainly because I don't have a degree in Art from any college. My degree is in Theatre. When I say that I usually have this little niggling feeling in the back of my head that remembers two people.

One doesn't really count, in my opinion. My drawing teacher for drawing one back at KState when I didn't really think too much about anything at all. I remember him well though, because that class was at 8:00am which I found entirely too early to be drawing when I was 19 years old. I skipped a lot. We learned a few techniques that I thought were intriguing. I barely scooted through that class, though I did end up with a B, I think...which was due to talent I guess. Because it had absolutely nothing to do with interest or discipline, or caring, on my part. It makes me ashamed to think of. The final project was to pick any technique we had learned in class and make a final project. I picked that thing where you plot out a graph of a photo and then plot out a graph on paper and replicate it. I did a giant portrait of my brother in a play when he was a kid that I loved. I put it off until the night before and stayed up, literally, all night doing it....came late to class....didn't put it up for critique because I was embarrassed to put it up late...and showed it the professor at the end of class. He looked at it and said "You are hard to understand, because you have immense talent but you just don't give a fuck." That's a quote. :) I remember I was startled that he used the word "fuck". I guess he made his point at the time though, because it made a huge impression on me. And when I picked up the drawing after classes were over, I found a small coffee stain on the back of it. Karma, I guess? It was the first drawing or piece of art I ever spent the money to have framed, and it still hangs in my mom's hallway. A reminder. Maybe he does count, after all.

The second was my teacher at Tarkio College where I got my Theatre degree from. Mary Beth Fogarty. Over the years I go in and out of being able to remember her name, but then I go look at the book I "swiped" from her. Actually, she lent it to me, but asked that I be sure to return it. You know how that goes. Being who I am though I always remember that I should have returned it. She lent me a few books...a couple on design and basic principles of art, and one on Oskar Kokoschka. She used to tell me that my style reminded her of him and I simply didn't see it. I took a long time to get that Theatre degree. For one thing, I think it's important to note that I grew up in Theatre. It's what my parent's did...it's what my family on my maternal side did...it was a way of life for me and it seemed natural to get a degree in it. But I took a long time at it because life happened at 19 for me. I realized there was other stuff to do, albeit a lot of it could be considered a waste of time. I ended up at Tarkio College because my dad was teaching there and they paid for faculty kid's tuition. I was working on a BFA in Theatre, and then the road turned half way through what was my fifth year of college. (I took a couple of breaks along the road, as well). I'm not sure why it happened....a lot of times I honestly think it started because of the (ahem) "party" lifestyle I was into...but I went and spent a summer away from Tarkio instead of participating in their summer theatre program, and I came back only interested in art. I wanted to learn everything I could. Mary Beth was the new art teacher they had hired. It was a very small college, so they only needed one. I dropped from a BFA to a BA in Theatre, so that I could spend more time taking art classes. I took every single art class I could. I still had some, er, attendance problems (my grade in sculpture was a gift...) but I soaked it in. I retook drawing, I took painting, figure drawing, art history....anything that had to do with art and Mary Beth Fogarty was my teacher. She was an artist in her own right, from Nebraska...and she took us to exhibits in Omaha a couple of times. She was incredibly encouraging. She said some things to me that I didn't agree with, and thereby taught me that you don't have to agree with everything a teacher tells you and that's okay. She once told me that the color blue, used in it's entirety on a drawing or painting, was only reserved for Picasso. I thought that was a bunch of hooey. It makes me laugh to think about to this day. Mary Beth taught me that it was important to learn the rules first...and then it was okay to break them. She taught me what abstraction was, in my opinion. I wasn't always crazy about her art...but I "got it". She really helped to form my opinions about art to this day. She taught me everything I know about art history. She was passionate, and fun.
So the other day I saw that someone had described themselves (who didn't have a degree either, I guess) as having "studied under" a few people. I thought to myself "well I would have to say I studied under Mary Beth!" and then that further prompted me to go google her.... So I did and I found some of her work. It brought back a lot of memories, and it was weird to look at it from the perspective of years having gone by. My first thought was that she was the German Expressionist, and why had I not noticed this before? And then I kept looking and it popped out at me: she had died in 2002. How could this be? She was born in 1943! That makes her 59 at her death. I wasn't able to find any explanation of how she died. It just seemed to stun me, because I knew she wasn't very old. I found a lovely article/page about an exhibit they had for her after her death. You can read it here.
So that's it. We all know it to be true...and as artists we joke about it constantly. We press on with our art because we feel the need to "express" and if we are lucky, it all boils down to someone having a lovely exhibit of our work after we die. But the thing is....the work does live on. Occasionally someone will view it, and love it, and want to know who did it...and the name will be a name that they read and remember for a bit, or perhaps a lifetime. I am lucky to have had someone like that teach me about art. I have remembered her often throughout my life. As I said at the beginning of this...I have often had that niggling feeling that I needed to give some sort of credit where credit was due. I would have stayed with her longer if the college had not gone bankrupt and closed down...if I had not gotten a Theatre degree. But I am thankful for what she did teach me, and I need to remember those things more often. Rest in peace, Mary Beth Schmidt Fogarty.

the frustration of the spirit...

Why do you paint? (or draw...collage....make art........) Do you do it because you have to somewhere deep inside of you? Do you do it to relax? Do you do it to figure yourself out? Or do you do it to sell it and make money?

I remember the day I sold my first painting. I knew I was about to head down a slippery slope and it made me rather sad. I was 27 and living in Vail, Colorado and I had been fortunate enough to hang some of my work in a coffee shop there called "The Daily Grind" in a group type show, for the first time. A woman who worked there wanted to buy a piece I had hung. I was all at once thrilled, and sad at the same time. I wasn't sad to see the piece go....I was sad because I knew it marked the beginning of something that I really wasn't sure I wanted to enter into. I was desperately broke, and I really needed the money. (Funny, some things never change...) But, I still had that fancy notion that I think a lot of artist's get...that my art wasn't about selling it, it was about the ART. A few months later I hung some more art up in Vail in a different coffee shop and some lady from Florida bought three pieces I had up. I guess they must've been 25.00 each because I remember making 75.00 off the lot and her telling me that I was selling my work far too cheap. It was that second sale that I realized I needed to start taking photo's of stuff.

Now I know that I've talked about this subject before...at least some of my feelings regarding selling vs. the spirit of art. So either forgive me while I battle some more stuff out of my brain, or just quit reading now. I won't be offended....

The thing is...I'm still broke. I still need to try and sell my art. I can't have it piling up at home as it is, because honestly there becomes too much of it. Because other than my son, I pretty much eat, sleep, and breathe thinking about art. I try to stop. But it doesn't work. I visualize concepts and I want to create them. I often write them down, and hopefully get to them later. So while I still on one hand, want desperately to return to that moment when I first "discovered" that I loved what my hand could produce...that it was the best poetry that I had written, or the best monologue I had given on stage...I am forever mired in the concept that I also need to record it, and put it out there for sale, and hope that someone likes it enough to buy it. Either that...I give it away. (Which mind you, is a wonderful thing to do, and I do it often!) I just believe there must be a balance out there.

So what's an artist to do that is stuck in between the proverbial rock and a hard place? The only thing I can do is to try and put thoughts of selling work out of my head while I am in the act of creating art....and to put thoughts of creating art out of my head while I am in the throes of sitting on this damned computer and finding ways to promote my art. The hard place is the promoting. The endless opinions that one seems to have to ingest in order to move forward, to say hi, to let people know that you exist. And there are some opinions out there that I would dearly love to throw an ever loving pie in the face at....but we are supposed to be "polite" and not go there.

Selling sites like Etsy and 1000markets are such wonderful tools for people like me who can not afford or simply don't have the current technical no how to create their own website. As well as even if I did create my own website, which I probably will one of these days....the traffic driven to it will still never top the traffic that can go through group selling sites such as the above mentioned. So they seem to be a somewhat necessary evil. Etsy isn't so bad, except perhaps it has become so large (and centers mostly on craft...but don't they all?) that it's kind of like shopping through the Penney's catalog when it comes down to it. It's huge. So one is still soley responsible for getting whatever it is that they are selling OUT there. That means lots of socializing on forums, or commenting on blogs, or what not. Pretty soon I am reminded of all that selling of myself I felt I had to do back when I was studying acting in theatre. It's all kind of the same thing. 1000markets is trying to launch a site that is similar to etsy in that it sells stuff too. But, they are trying so hard to be "more exclusive" and at the same compete with etsy, and not do the things that they think etsy did wrong...that I think they are backing themselves into a pretty tight corner of snootyness which is rather off putting. The "snooty" that I am referring to will not be apparent to the buyer...but will definitely affect the merchant that is trying to do all the things that he/she is supposed to once again "get noticed" around there. The thing about these two sites is it's like they are both special little clubs that they have thousands of people standing outside the door banging to get in, pleading to be "accepted" and basically being told by the people inside that they aren't good enough. This can be quite daunting to the spirit. A true lesson in forgiveness in my opinion. There simply isn't enough time in the day or hours on the "front page" to include everyone...and those that have weaker spirit's (I suppose?) or are just creating art in order to sell it, are going to eventually fall off and stop. Stop creating what they love to do in the first place. All because it's high school all over again.

This breaks my heart a bit. And first let me state that occasionally I feel I have broken through the doors, and sometimes I feel I'm still pounding. I have definitley had moments where someone that I don't even know that lives across the country from me, has made me feel like my art was bad and has made me have doubt. But I seem to have the power to shake that off fairly quickly because I truly see the beauty in all art...and am very aware that art is very subjective. You either like roses or you don't. You like daisies, or you don't. Or you like both. The same with art. You either appreciate the effort or you don't. It doesn't mean that you are going to go out and buy stuff from every person out there...one will always have their favorites. (personally, I like dahlia's) But it breaks my heart that there are people out there that will give up simply because someone told them they weren't good enough. I am not the most religious person in the world, but I truly believe that "God" gave people the want to create because "he" wanted them to be able to make the world a beautiful place.

So to the people that I sense want to "give up" because they aren't selling their work, or they can't get the people on the other side of the door to open it up...I want to tell them "don't give up". Or I want to ask them if they are selling their art because they truly love to create, or because they are trying to make some money. Because if it's the latter....then yeah, you should probably just stop. I realize I'm not including people in here who create stuff simply to sell it and who actually sell oodles of stuff. I don't really know what to say to people like that... I'm glad you're making some much needed money, but my guess is I can't see any soul in your work. Maybe that doesn't matter.... Maybe it only matters to me.

Maybe this is kind of a tirade? I don't know....but I've found recently that I feel stuck as to what to "blog" about on my "art" blog...and have decided to just write about whatever I feel like regarding art. You don't have to agree with me. Just like you don't have to like dahlia's. ;)

"In art, there are no rules" is what my husband said to me the other night....and today another friend added to that "...except those that we invent." Amen to that.