Street Talk -- Passing Parades

On one of our walks up the street, we hurried the five blocks to see the annual horse and carriage parade. The event was begun by one of my high school classmates to kick-off the winter Futurity. It was popular, but because of unpredictable weather, it was moved to spring. More recently, it has been scheduled to coincide with our major downtown Arts Festival.

Lest you think it boring. Consider that there were four legged creatures from miniature mules to Clydesdales, wheeled vehicles from chuck wagons to funeral hearses and modern dress mixed with western garb and period costumes.

The entries moved like clockwork down the blocks and there were few lulls in the line-up for a full hour of fun. The street-sweepers signaled the end, but we were reluctant to leave and moved one block over to catch the beginning again.

After the parade, we stopped to visit at our neighborhood bed and breakfast inn.
Suddenly, a vehicle towing a horse trailer pulled up in front and a couple of guests stopped to check out. They opened the trailer to let us see their Clydesdales closeup. They talked about how much they liked the well-run event and our city (and of course, our street) before they began their long drive back to North Georgia. They agreed that they would plan to come again.

This was the 15th year. This was my first time! Five blocks away and this was my first time. Shame on me.

Are there parades passing you by on your street?

Street Talk -- Getting Down

As the weather cools down, leisurely strolls down the wide green space in the center of my street are more fun. In other places it might be an esplanade, a hana-no-michi, a village green but in our town it has always been called "the median." (When I had a chance, I had it changed to "linear park" in the official neighborhood plan to protect its benches, lighting, monuments and sidewalks, but it's still The Median)

Although the hundreds of azaleas which have brought springtime joy to both hometown folks and visitors, have suffered greatly through some irrational transplanting decisions by city leaders, the heat and drought conditions of two recent summers, and some vandalism, it is still a great place to walk. The oaks, magnolias and gingkos provide dappled shade for stopping to read inscriptions on monuments or just for rest on the concrete benches.

On this particular day, Lucy took a walk and let me come too. We didn't take the stroller. She set the pace and looked at whatever caught her two-year-old eye. She took close looks at things I had not thought to point out while she was sitting up in the stroller.

She tried to climb the slippery light poles to get to the big ball lights added during the 50s.
















She watch closely as tiny ants ("the owies") scurried into their houses.










She sat on the cool grass and on an old rough concrete bench.
















She "read" the letters on a monument with her fingers and felt the bumps on another.








Sometimes, part of the creative process is 'getting down' to keep from missing the good stuff.



Another good Lesson from Lucy.

Street Talk -- Sunset Walk

The street where I live has historic roots. It was named for General Nathanial Greene of American Revolutionary fame. Come walk with us.

It is the address of the Municipal Building which houses our consolidated City and County governments and the headquarters library of our regional system.

Its Signers' monument marks the burial site of two of Georgia's three signers of The Declaration of Independence. (No one really knows where the third one was buried after a tiny little duel.)










In just thirteen of its blocks, there are two magnificent old textile mills which are now being developed for mixed use, an unbelievable 'deconsecrated' church which is now a community cultural center, a snaggled-toothed array of churches, historic homes, office buildings, empty lots, and 'modern' eyesores along with the Salvation Army and the Bus Station. . . and my neighborhood.





Lucy and I walked the wide green space down the middle of the street just at sunset this week. We only walked four of the long blocks, but we stopped along the way to speak with neighbors, lost a stroller wheel, checked out the monuments and watched a few clouds.

Lucy's Mamma wondered where we were and called.


We were busy taking these pictures with the iPHone.

Street Talk -- Balancing Act

I often complain about all there is to do with the time I have. (I will admit that having a two year old around makes a difference.) I don't seem to control the many layers of my day as I have in the past. I try to decide what is really important.

This week, as I watched the junk man roll down the street with his amazing balancing act, I realized that somehow he knew that the placement was right and that it would not fall over. And while he added pieces to his shopping cart collection, I saw that sometimes it's the little things which hold up the big things. I understood that they keep things balanced and rolling smoothly over the bumpy parts.

Sometimes the big things alone just get too top-heavy.

The Joy in Red Shoes

Elsie Jane died last week. She was 100. She loved color and her mountain house and travel and fun clothes which she wore with panache, even when her knees kept her out of high heels. At art openings, she could be expected to wear something glorious.

Elsie Jane was in her mid-eighties when she was one of my watercolor students. She was often frustrated that she couldn't paint the way she used to; I thought there was a fresh look in her work. She commented on her inability to create a certain blue, that she only got pink. When I saw the blue she described, not pink, it was my first understanding of loss of color in sight like loss of pitch range in hearing.

Catherine turned 88 last week. She has been a neighbor for twenty years. She celebrated with a surprise birthday luncheon and then hurried back to her floral shop. She loves color and flowers and interesting jewelry and fun clothes which she wears in many layers and combinations. At art openings, she is sometimes the art.

Before she was ten, Catharine began her journey with the floral business while collecting money for grandmother. She learned something about almost everyone in every house as she stopped in after wedding or funeral arrangements had been delivered and she still remembers. Now, when I hear her describe those early neighbors, and now the third and fourth generation which still gets flowers from her, ' as "beautiful person," "sweetest thing,"or "so lovely," I understand that it is Catharine who is these things.

Elsie Jane and Catharine. Two women who have lived their very different lives with the same wonder and enthusiasm for creative projects and interesting people. Two women who have taught me about life and living with joy. They are part of the reason I still love to wear red shoes (or is it really green?)

---------------000--------------
A little addendum: One day in my senior watercolor class, I began to hear a conversation about funeral planning. One lady said, "I went today to plan everything for my funeral." A ninety-six year old said, "I have paid for mine." Elsie Jane said, "But if the price goes down, you won't get your money back."
(I'm sure if Catharine had been there, she would have taken orders for the casket spray.) They were all matter-of-fact about living; matter-of-fact about dying.

A Welcome to the World!

A tiny little discovery this week gave me a 'frisson' of concern. (I've always wanted to use that word; the heroines in gothic novels always seem to love it -- and this is my second time in two weeks!) Following my statistics for website visitors, I clicked on a link back to . . . my own website!

My first reaction was, "Strange." My second reaction was, "Wait, something is not right. It's in SPANISH!" Since others have had their websites appropriated by nefarious characters, I wondered if mine had been stolen as well.

With a little help from my webmistress/daughter, I've learned that my webpages -- and my blogs now appear as about ten or so different websites in as many languages -- we believe it is a new creation from Google. (See my English website and their Spanish versions.)

I have sometimes taken for granted the reach of the World Wide Web when I need to find information. Now, I feel a little like the mother cat in the photo who stepped between the camera and her baby -- don't bother my baby!

Colloquialisms and dialects sometimes need interpretations in this country, but, certainly, translations from one writing system to another are not always clear. It makes me a little nervous as I publish my words in perhaps a dozen languages: my own English, Spanish, German, French, Italian, Russian, Arabic, Japanese, Chinese, Korean . . . .

I once had to explain to my Japanese friends that a new gallery label was needed to replace "A Big Harvest" for the painting, "A Bushel and a Peck." (The title comes from the song "I Love You a Bushel and a Peck.")

So, I hope these words I write will find good meanings for readers wherever they live and whichever version they use.

Welcome, World!
Annette

NOTE: I also published this post today on my 59Musketeers blog.

The Yin & Yang of Choice

For many people who were casting their votes on Tuesday, the choice was tough.





Our friend, who had had a considerable lead in last month's special election but not a clear 50% has apparently lost by only a couple of hundred votes.

What happened?

There are some good political guesses:
"His supporters just thought his lead was good enough and didn't come out to vote."
"Voters found it hard to choose between the two run-off candidates or maybe they just didn't like either one."
"It is summer and lots of folks are out of town -- always a bad time for an election."
"It's such a busy time."

I had my precinct team in place from 7:00 AM until 7:00 PM. We were ready to handle the usual 50-65% turn-out of our 2700 registered voters. At the end of the day, we counted only 475 who stopped in, chatted with neighbors and friends and quickly cast their ballots. We were not surprised.

And what of those 2225 who didn't vote on Tuesday?
They made the easy choice.

Whether in the voting booth or in the studio,
not participating in the process . . . not choosing . . . is still a decision.

Choosing Between Two

This week's special election to fill the Congressional seat of our friend, Charlie Norwood, pitted an old classmate against 8 other candidates. We were pleased that he received more votes than his next two competitors together. However, since he did not receive a 50%, there will be a run-off next month; we just don't know which of the two will be his opponent.

Large crowds of voters are never expected for special elections so I was prepared to get a little reading done during our 12 hour day. I didn't have any reading time, but my election workers are a great team and I did manage to take a break with my camera. The church which hosts my precincts is very contemporary and I wanted to photograph the stained glass windows which remind me of Rouault's paintings.

As I passed through the corridor to the rotunda and the windows, I looked up at a sliver of sky above the mediation courtyard. Cottony white clouds were lit with late afternoon sunbeams and I was enthralled. Then I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to face a voter who was pointing toward the ground. I looked down into the garden and found a concrete bunny and a very much alive green lizard having a conversation.



If I had to vote, I would have a difficult time in choosing which view was more awesome. I hope my voters have an easier time in the run-off decision-making next month.

Color of the Day -- Yellow

I am still absorbing the changes which come to a household when a tiny baby moves in -- and not just the diaper ones! Lucy, Susan and I went to the hospital on Thursday to bring Kathryn and Belle home.

Now I write blog entries and don't get them posted. I make shopping lists and lose them. I suddenly find that I have been sitting with one or the other of my two grandchildren while an hour slips away. Every day is filled with a golden glow.

We think Belle is a beautiful baby and she is fitting into the family. Lucy is generous with her toys and snacks, so we have to watch for large stuffed animals being tossed into the crib or offers of tastes of peppermint candy or cheese and sips of soft drinks.

It has been an interesting week.

The yellow dress which Belle wore home from the hospital was worn by both her mother and her aunt Susan in the late 60s. Is that 'recycling' or 'heirloom?'

Morning notes: The black and yellow book

Most mornings, I take a final cup of coffee to this corner of my dining room. The painting and 'stuff' on the table top changes with the season or my mood. The sun filters in through the bare limbs or narrow leaves of the tree outside. I sit and check my schedule, plan a blog entry or a painting or read and sing to Lucy (an almost daily event.)

This week, I've given some thought to the 'black and yellow book.' Last year, I had written that I was "Disappointed that I will not see my name on one of those black and yellow books. Annoyed that I let this become so important." ( see Endings and Beginnings) Now, I am surprised that I had put it behind me so well that I didn't even think about it's possible release date. I was not prepared to find it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore.

I pulled it down and sat in a big chair to glance through the pages. The author is a textbook writer/publisher. He has been a newspaper art critic and has a Masters in both teaching and English. There was nothing surprising, it fit the formula -- a formula which I could not seem to get. It will sell well.

Mostly though, I have thought about the differences in what I had envisioned for "my" book and the one I held in my hands. I think the difference is in approach.
As an artist, teacher, art judge and sometime writer, my presentation of art history has been related to art techniques and colored by a degree in religion. I have tried to show art in history in relation to art today and art makers in relation to the world around them. And . . . I want the contribution of women to be important. I think somewhere there might be a need for my kind of book. It just won't be black and yellow.

What Is It Like To Be an Artist?

Last week, in spite of my coughing and hacking, I was interviewed by a middle school art student. She had to ask questions, visit my studio, complete a painting in "my style" and make a report on "her" artist. I really didn't feel up to it, croaking answers to her questions, but I thought back to a report my daughter had written in the fifth grade and the impact it had on her and "her artist." (She had selected my friend, Georg Shook, and declared, "After all, he is famous, Mom." Georg was genuinely pleased when she gave him a copy.) Somehow, I found the energy and made the effort to meet with Jordan.

Her questions were interesting ones but sometimes we veered away from the topic. I had forgotten that her parents had brought her in a stroller to a neighborhood party at my house; she had forgotten that she had come. Her grandmother had recently become a member of our family; we were both at the wedding. She had been to the opening or two of my latest work; I had forgotten the quiet teenager.


But this was about art and there were those questions about being an artist which needed answers. . . .

Good questions to ask any artist!
--When did you know you were an artist?
--Do you have a formal art education?
--Did your family encourage you?
--Which artists have influenced you the most?
--What are the most interesting things which have happened to you as an artist?

It was a long project and one which required time, preparation and thought. I applaud her creative and caring teacher. I thank Jordan for making me think about what it's like to be an artist.

The Moment in Time Window

"marginalia"
I was introduced to this word by the Cat Sidh blog. I immediately copied this quote:

"I think the interesting thing about marginalia is not so much the intrinsic information it contains, but the window it opens onto the moment in time when the notes were made."

. . . and placed this comment on her blog:

"A-a-ah, “marginalia.” True for literary folks, but doubly true for visual artists. It’s the one thing we forget to do when sketching. AND, one of the simplest reasons we can’t get back to ‘that moment in time’ when we are back in the studio."

It perfectly fills a little empty spot in my education.

I've always made notes, underlined and doodled in books and my sketchbooks include everything from the weather and smells to sizes of potential paintings I might make. Now I have a word for it!

I learn a lot from Shelly, but mostly she makes me wish I were younger, more irreverent, freer to explore and more creative with the information I have gathered -- especially with the stuff in the margins.

Shelley Couvrette's "Marginalia" entry, along with her other typical bloggin' may be found here: http://cat-sidh.net/blog/?m=200702&paged=4

Life Celebrations

I would not have taken the time to drive through the countryside yesterday. I might have poked around the studio wondering when I would find the courage to pick up a brush again. I might have sorted some papers and wondered which artist's birthday might be on the calendar for next week. I might have raked the leaves in the yard.

Instead, daughter and I drove through the autumn afternoon of breathtaking country roads under blue skies past farms and tiny streams and landscapes of color. We took tiny roads with few markings to reach an old church by an older cemetery to attend the unexpected funeral of a favorite cousin. There were hymns played on an old piano, arrangements of flowers, and prayers and words to comfort. But we missed her bubbling, wicked laughter which always punctuated family gatherings.

From there, we drove a couple of hours through more scenes which rivaled our "take that back road" tours in France. We joined a birthday dinner for the high school classmate who had been my matron of honor and best friend. It was not an anniversary but the presence of the classmate who had been by her side for more than 40 years made her celebration complete. After much great food and good laughter, we drove another 3 hours through the cool fall night with stars and moon and clouds to keep us company.

It was a complete day.

No Evil

In today's Arts Journal, Modern Art Notes returns to the question of the school children, their fired teacher and nudes. Author Tyler Greene includes a link to photos of possible nudes which the Texas children may have seen and from there you will find a link to a NYTimes article. He will address the role of museum directors in their communities in future articles. Stay tuned for his comments.

In case you are yawning by now. Art tells something about who people are - their history, their culture, their beliefs. Who makes a decision about what cannot be part of the story? What will you do when a museum cannot show your work because of content?

Hear no Evil.
See no evil.
Speak no evil.

Just at Halloween -- scary stuff.

Enlightening Conversation

For months, my mailbox and my inbox had been filled with information about this "extraordinary partnership" between the High Museum of Art in Atlanta and the Musée du Louvre in Paris. Brochures and newsletters mentioned the rare opportunities for "the exchange of cultural expertise and educational programs" which this three year alliance offers. I was eagerly anticipating the first exhibition "Kings as Collectors" which was described as "a breathtaking exhibition of paintings, sculptures, and antiquities from the collections formed by King Louis XIV, Louis XV and Louis XVI." For more about this Collaboration, visit high.org (requires Flash 8)

Our visit coincided with a members preview day which was filled with mimes, activities for the children, live entertainment and photo opportunities with the "King of France" and his Queen. Everyone was in a festival mood as they stood in long lines, squeezed through galleries filled with interested viewers and browsed at the gift shop. It was a pleasant day, and everyone seemed to 'get it' but me!

As we drove home from Louvre-Atlanta,
I began to comment about what we had seen. My daughter and I agreed that the Marble busts - a group of about 30 - were exquisite. But when I said that I was disappointed in the drawings and half-finished sketches and some of the paintings which seemed to be minor works of minor artists, she was quiet. Finally, I asked what she thought. She disagreed with me!

She loved the progression from unfinished sketch to completed painting which she said that most people don't get to see. She was intriqued by the tiny bronzes and she didn't care if the painters were majors or minors. She had not read the glorious descriptions which I had, so she did not go with preconceived notions of breath-taking, overwhelming works. She simply enjoyed.

Two points of view. An enlightening conversation.
I think my second visit will be with fresher eyes.

Random Acts of Seasons Changing

It has been a while since I have posted. I really meant to write some things down. I have some pretty cool notes, a few odd sketches, a photo or two, but it has been the last of summer and the first of autumn. . . . Here are a few observations.
1. The last of the summer concerts brought good crowds to the outdoors just as the evenings became comfortable for listening. Now, the new schedules fill the mailbox with lovely formal programs or funky combinations of styles promising longer selections, better paid guest artists and, sometimes, tables for eight. No more dogs under the chairs, blankets spread for picnicking or mosquitoes adding their own brand of music to the evening. Perhaps a new outfit or two is in order.

2. As the days grow cooler, the cats who slept stetched out long and skinny during the dog days of summer, make cat commas throughout the house and begin to scout out spots for winter naps. Fred likes a lap or Lucy's pillow; Greene loves a box, Vinnie nestles in a dining room chair just under the table cloth, Boomie likes the cushion in the chair at the top of the stairs and Maggie the deaf kitty hids in spots where she will feel safe. They are getting ready and they don't have a calendar or a weatherman.

3. The big yellow school bus blows its horn each morning and empties the neighborhood of children's voices, mammas' scolding and teenagers booming music. Some days it is almost too quiet -- until the afternoon when the bus lumbers down the street to return its cargo.

4. In the bird bath, there are red seeds from the magnolia pods at the Widow's Home down the street and the Asian ladies are watching the ripening fruits on the soon-to-be brilliant golden Gingko trees -- hints that it is time to prepare a Celebration of Moon Viewing.

5. Homecoming and Reunion weekends are planned for Alums to return to their Alma Maters to see old friends and professors. This year, we will -- for the first time in 175 years -- have a football game on the schedule.

Random Acts of Seasons Changing. . . .

Like Fred, I have just enjoyed without really paying attention and I don't think I'm ready.