I M Perfect lady

Category: Art & Quilts

  • Find the truth.

    "I write because it makes me feel like someone is listening – Or am I listening to myself."

     

    I love this quote and I don't know who said it.

     

    What I do know is that I began writing in earnest when I was the most lost.

     

    I was in a body, in a life – in relationships, I was a mother and a wife – and I didn't know who I was.

     

    This was quite scary and exhilarating at the same time.

     

    When I was writing, I was engaging with what I called my mental lady – my mind – and trying to find a Me that was not tainted with my childhood religion or the affects of abuse – or even just programming that comes with living in this world.

     

    Could I find myself, when I didn't know who I was or where I had gone missing?

     

    I am amazed I was any semblance of an adult –

    I had to look up "semblance" to see if that was the correct word to use.

    "the outward appearance or apparent form of something, especially when the reality is different. "she tried to force her thoughts back into some semblance of order"

     

    It is the perfect word. Especially when I was living different from the reality of my truths.

     

    I am not certain I can accurately describe the vast chasm of unknown – and me and the mental lady – trying to make sense of the senseless.

     

    This mental lady was who I had been for 46 years and the writer was who I was becoming  began dialoguing and arguing over who was the real me.        I felt like a fledging little bird compared to the wily mental lady.

    It seemed not a fair fight, for the new me was so small , unsure and bewildered – the mental lady had strength of not her own conviction – and was backed by family and church.

     

    Our playground or battlefield was on the blank sheet of paper.  

    Without pencil and paper, I fear the mental lady would have won.

     

    The strength of her brainwashing, the fear laced shame of abuse – was a powerful duo to contend with.

     

    Especially when inside of me was a newly seen abused little girl.

     

    A part of me was writing to empower that little girl and for her to become free.

     

    Often when a choices was tough to make, I would visualize how it would be to the wounded girl inside of me.  Then, the choice was easy.

     

    Many more hard choices were made – and the little girl inside of me grew strong as I listened to what she wanted/needed and gave her love, peace and joy.

     

    I look back fondly at those early years of being a fledging – doing battle with a brainwashed mind – and feel pride.

     

    Try talking sense to a person who's been under the spell of brainwashing – or better yet try changing them or debunking their beliefs – THAT is what she was up against.

     

    Writing helped free me from my brainwashed mind.

     

    It perhaps was one of the most powerful tools I used to get me to walk hand and hand with reality.

     

    I am no longer fledging – but very secure in who I am.

     

    I still use writing – which is now on this blog – anytime my mind can't leave an idea alone. When my mind is restless and it keeps pulling me from the reality of now – I am drawn to the blank page.

     

    What I recall too is how the wily mental lady was always so righteously right. And, I was often afraid to begin writing for I didn't know what I would have to do.  What choice I would be forced to make.

     

    Yet the writing always gave me a choice that was true for me.

     

    When it was true for me – I always felt at peace with the choice – even when that choice brought serious consequences.

     

    What the fledging bird within me wanted most of all, was to be true to my feelings and emotions.  I wanted to be in sync with my body, mind and spirt. 

     

    Writing was the vehicle – and my mental lady and I were on a journey to see which one of us would survive the ruthlessness of the pencil.

     

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    Me, Myself and I – on a journey to find the truth.

     

     

     

  • Imperfect Grandma

    "Imperfect Grandma" – is the only book I can write.

    I M Perfect and it is impossible not to be.  

     

    I wanted to leave my grandchildren an idea of who I am, perhaps impart some wisdom – and since I have nothing to pass on from the generation before me – words and who I am are what I can give.

     

    In the family ways, I am imperfect – I left my family.

    And its beliefs.

     

    Who I am and where I come from are not topics of most family holidays.

    My childhood family traditions – feel unworthy – or perhaps it feels like cheating to carry forth pieces of what I left behind. And they are flavored by the dysfunction and estrangement.

     

    As a grandma – I am seen differently – vastly different depending upon who you ask.

    I am piece of my family that broke free – and there are many still being family without me.

    My family tree is mainly – a limb – the branch who is estranged.

     

    I am not the perfect grandma who is attached to a long string of women – well I am – but not ones I can celebrate.  The perfect strings hold love, trust, peace, hope, joy, caring, wisdom…  The strands and strings of my tapestry show the legacy of abuse.

     

    In order to write about me, those stands are tangled into me – I am unable to separate them – they are a part – an integral part of me.

     

    My history is part of me – and without that truth – you won't understand why I stepped away from family.  And, you won't know how I became the grandma I am today.

     

    I have been pondering a book to write so my grandchildren have my story spoken from me.  I want them to know me – for there is much of my family I no longer know.  

     

    More than me, I want them to know the history they come from on my side.

    It is important to me that there isn't silence.

    I want to find a way to share my story, my art and what I stand for – in a way that isn't too dark; but one I hope will inspire them to be themselves, to own their feelings, to speak their truth, to dare to stand alone, and to be okay being imperfect.

     

    I want them to know, you can be at your darkest and still find a way back to joy.  To be broken and feel love.  To dance with the spectrum of opposites.

     

    What is funny, is that I thought I could write the perfect grandma book – only to realize that once again, my team of grandmas are imperfect.

     

    I can't write a perfect grandma book, for I am not perfect.

    But it seems to me there will lots I can say about Imperfect Grandma.

     

    I feel inspired by "Imperfect Grandma".

    I feel relief being in alignment with imperfections.

    I had to go look up imperfect – to make sure it will suit this grandma.

    "not perfect; faulty or incomplete."

    And I feel it does.  I was a faulty daughter, sister and even Aunt.

    I do feel incomplete or whole – as in part of something. I am missing my family of origin.

     

    While I am not broken – I am not whole.

    Imperfect Grandma – is willing to go there and speak what isn't spoken.

     

    The writings of Imperfect Grandma – feel right for me.

    Perhaps I have the image

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    This is me – Proudly Failing at who they wanted me to be.  

    Imperfect Grandma

     

     

  • Our Friendship

    A friend of mine passed away – I don't recall how many years we've known each other – over two decades or more. We bonded over our love of art, fabric, thread and talking about dysfunction and women's issues.  

    She was older than me – a few decades or more.

    Way more sophisticated and wise to the wonders of the world.  

    Our pasts were so different – and maybe the times in which we were born, and our families.

    Her view of the world was large and experienced. Mine was small and less so.

    She carried lots of sorrow with her as she lived and loved.

     

    We were a pair of opposites.

    Learning from each other.

    Working through our life lessons.

    Sharing our unique experiences.

     

    She was a cheerleader of my art and one that I respected for she was beyond talented with a needle and thread. Intricate detailed and precise – with wild abandon and an imagination that stretched out far. I guess I was her cheerleader too.

     

    She lived her Dash…

     

    I was only aware of her last few decades – much of her life had been lived by the time I met her.  In the later years we saw each other more – the more housebound she became.  We texted and shared the things we made and our lives.

    She didn't like clutter or holding on to anything she no longer wanted or used. I became her hand-me-down girl.  When she gave me her last pile of treasures, I asked if her creative spirit was attached, she smiled and said "of course".  She was my fairy godmother of sewing supplies and her treasures are now sprinkled into mine.

    She liked my texts, of nature and art and even my grandchildren. I was passing to her parts of life that seemed out of reach for her.

     

    I asked her about if she slept lots now, and she said no – I am spending my time remembering.

     

    I then sent her a text about all that I remember of her.  Her last text back to me was –

    Thank you.

     

    My phone lost a contact – a resource and voice I had come to love.

     

    The world will be different without you.

    They say if you want to be near someone you lost- to do what they love.

    She and her spirit will continue to be with me when I create

     

    May your spirit now fly – to horizons beyond your imagination.

    Rest in peace was never for you – you wanted to be free and limitless – feeling alive and vital.  

     

    I will carry you in my heart and feel the absence of where you used to be.

     

    I am grateful for our friendship.

     

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  • Rattles Your Beliefs

    "Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." –Cesar Cruz

     

    This reimagining of DaVinci's Last Supper, has hit some buttons – as great art should.

    Art truly should disturb the comfortable and to comfort the disturbed.  It is there to speak in ways lots would love there to be silence.  

     

    What this art form has shown most, is how narrow and judgmental some christian's beliefs are and how they are only comfortable with those 'like them'.

     

    I experienced life in the narrow trenches of religion and how my own self judgment often then colored others.  I had zero tolerance, understanding or empathy for those unlike me.

    When art can draw an affront – to me – it has truth woven through it.

     

    If your said religion feels attacked by those – not like you – it may mean your religion isn't wide enough or open or accepting or loving or inclusive.  It may mean that there are boundaries or fences to keep "different" out.

     

    Somehow what is lost is how there are billions of expressions of humanity and each are living life from their inside out.

    I am always astounded when someone outside can disturb your inner faith – just by being themselves.

     

    Humanity won't be healed by the exclusion of others or the fear of what seems different.

     

    Great Art forms will disturb the comfortable and will show the world just who they are, and how they see this world and the human journey.

     

    It is my belief, if you have a strong inner personal understanding of who you are, others on the outside can't smear it.  

     

    We need more disturbing art – to create cracks in the old ways of narrow beliefs.

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    Faiths that can withstand art and all its expressions – is one of freedom and inclusiveness.

    The Art Forms at the Olympics created a disturbance and it reached the goal it intended.

    How each person views it, will also display who you are and what you believe.

    While many feel art is visual – it actually speaks to your soul and rattles your beliefs.

     

  • It’s called Artist

    Art as therapy is something that is an interesting adventure.  The piles of things I make often represent the outcome of channeling my anxiety or perhaps waylaying it.

     

    Art in itself is odd.

    Being called an artist odder still.

     

    I am drawn to doing things with my hands – but it mostly feels like my body and soul need to make things.  

     

    Not just things; but things that carry energies of joy and feelings of love.

     

    When I was unpacking for the Art Show – I said over and over "Oh I love this one." It was like I wasn't there when I made it.   

     

    Expressing my feelings in art – is perhaps getting in touch with the feelings I had long been detached from.  It is like my body now craves being surprised by the things my hands create.

     

    When I am working, I decide things by feelings.  The colors and the designs in the fabric that seem to dance together are what I love.  There is magic in pairing certain colors together. 

    I still feel like a beginner and I have been sewing art quilts for over 20 years.

     

    It mostly feels like I am selling my lessons or what I am practicing on – and that I am working towards a goal I cannot see.  Mostly I am present with my art and where it is at this time.

     

    As my art continues to weave and change – so do I.

     

    The energy that comes forth in my art – refuels me.

    I am grateful to make art.

    I am grateful it makes my body feel joy and it tickles me.

    And grateful that others see what I feel and even more take my art home with them.

    Being an artist is more of a feeling than a label.

     

    Second to doing art, is enjoying the art of others. I love when I am surprised and made to feel something when seeing what others do with their hands.

     

    Art carries a feeling – a message from a soul.

    I looked up the definition of "Artist". 

    "a person who creates art (such as painting, sculpture, music, or writing) using conscious skill and creative imagination."

    I agree the combination of skill and imagination is what make the magic.

    There is a quote about "Worry is a poor way to use your imagination."  Doing art give my mind a better way to be used.

     

    Often instead of thread of worry, I have piles of un-made pieces I can't wait to do.

    My aunt whose sewing machine I inherited when she passed away – used to worry that she would die before creating all the ideas she had.  I get this.  And the more you do, the more ideas grow out of nowhere.

     

    Art is a therapy for me, it keeps my wandering mind entertained. 

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    And maybe I am creating images that bring me love, peace and joy.

     

    Artist isn't about me – it is about what comes when I follow my imagination.

    I am inspired by others and use their ideas and make them my own.

     

    I don't take being an artist seriously; but I do making art.

    My life is better when I find the time to do things that bring me joy and excites my imagination.

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    I feel that my soul speaks through my art.

    In looking at my art, I love my soul.

    I love the playful colorful joy it expresses.

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    Perhaps my soul has a name – it's called artist.

     

    ( I have been going through old pictures – deleting them to make room on my devices. It is fun to see the older ones.)

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Without the truths.

    I used to believe that we all knew what truth was and that some of us just chose to not live by it.

     

    I now believe it is rare to be raised with truth as the core component in the relationship between parent and child. That many parents feel they can spare the child by leaving them in the dark about some truths.

     

    Often these truths are life shaping ones.  Ones that would feel like holes you intuitively feel; but can't put a finger on its content.

     

    I just assumed everyone knew their own truths – and the generational truths of their families.

     

    Yet, I was 46 before I was hit in the face by truths that shaped my life – or more how my life was crippled by their concealment.

     

    It was hard for me to speak truthfully about my feelings or stand up to truths that appeared when abuse was exposed.  

     

    And it seems a backwards way to live, where lies are easier to speak.

     

    I am not sure if you can know the truth – when it is normal to have relationships built upon pretend and cowardly steering away from truths. 

     

    Truths that would color a person differently.

     

    Often others will speak of my truths – but not their truths.

    I find this interesting.  I have bravely sat with ugly truths. Learning how they feel shocking and horrid and yet so comforting and regulating.

    They allow me to see the world without holes where lies live.

     

    Some may find it confusing to think of lies as holes. But, if you keep important things away from a child, you are creating a world that crucial pieces are missing.

     

    Folks don't typically lie about mundane things, they will often lie about things that matter and are character defining.

     

    Giving a child a false picture of their world. They live in this make-believe space calling it real.  Calling it even truth.

     

    When truth is really fake, they don't know what truth is – if that makes sense.

     

    Just because you call it a truth, it doesn't make it so. Or just because you leave out the truths, it doesn't make them disappear.

     

    Again, while abuse and being raised in a cult like religion had a great impact on forming who I was, how I saw myself and the world.  The bigger missing piece was simple hard truth.

     

    Just becoming familiar with truth – in all its facets.

     

    Folks pretending to be someone they are not is far more normal than we'd like to believe.

     

    Sometimes we hide small things. Seemingly inconsequential things. But more often than not what is hidden are ugly truths.  Sick behaviors and/or bad things that happened to us. Or moments of poor choices and things we wish we hadn't done.

     

    There are folks who do bad things and then there are those who refuse to see them in the truth of who they are.

     

    My truthful feeling about my father, Fear – was not reflected in how my mother engaged with him. She acted and treated him like he didn't have this predilection to abuse children.

    Living in her house, you would not be able to tell by her actions anything was amiss. Her truth was missing in her actions.

     

    There were odd events that now make sense; but life didn't change.

    It was like the truth made a brief appearance – and then false narration covered it back up.

     

    Even when my father was in the Houghton County Jail. My mother stated in a letter to the family, that He was on trial by the state of Michigan; but not by our family.  

     

    Like the state pursued the truth – but we would not judge him by these sexual abuse truths. It felt to me, like we would continue to call him dad and treat him as such.

     

    This truth fearing way of living, makes for crazy making.

    But it assures that family is family – no matter what truth appears – that could tear it apart.

     

    I am sure there are many examples in many dysfunctional homes who will water down and make nice things that need to be exposed.

     

    I believe when the truth is kept away, we keep away from our own truths.

    When you keep a distance from your self – you can't be you.

     

    You don't know who you are.

     

    I recall feeling this huge sense of relief when the worst of the worst was exposed about my family. I made sense.  I didn't make sense with the truth hidden. Or worse I felt something was wrong with me.  

     

    Bottom line, when we keep truths from our children – we raise them in a world where they don't know what truth is – they never met it.

     

    I wonder what it does to our minds and the files in our heads – when we label things incorrectly.

     

    Labeling each incident and experience as it is – is not common place.

    For some reason we fear the truth and it being exposed.

    We learn to live in the complicated space of holes and false information.

     

    Like having a map that leads to nowhere – but believing it has a real destination.

    Or a map of fake towns and destinations.

     

    I am very skeptical that there can be love amidst the lies.

    Or can love even co-exist with lies.

    Does love need the truth in order to grow and evolve and love yourself?

    And, in the end do you just love the lies.

     

    What is life if truth is left out?

     

    In my experience the absence of truth is directly correlated with the absence of the sense of self.

     

    I was 46 when the truth crashed in and I didn't know who I was – for I had never lived with truth before.  To live with it, to speak of it, to view your world without holes and no silence – changes your life completely.

     

    There was no part of me that hadn't been created with this false narrative.

    I was a pretend person. Built in a land that feared what the truth would do to our family.

     

    What I find so shocking – is the truth came in, it sat in the Houghton County Jail – and so many didn't see it.

     

    I believe when you are raised to look around and over truths, it becomes a way of life.

     

    It has to be denial.

     

    Denial must feel like a kinder place to be – where nothing is required of you – are there even consequences in the land of denial?

     

    It feels like it is a happy family – when I look at them from here.

     

    They get a family – without the truths.

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  • Played So Much.

    The only Art Show I do, is less than a week away.  It is time now to look up from what I have created, price my art and start getting organized to show.

    There is a big difference between doing art, showing art, and selling art.

     

    I love getting lost in new ideas, in playing with colors and fabrics, and this year new mediums.  

     

    It is like each new idea gives birth to another idea – a cascade of inspiration.

    These faces were so much fun to play with, they captivated me for weeks!

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    These are inspired by Freddie Moran.  They are way too fun – I can't know if they will sell – but my joy has already happened.

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    If you try these, I am pretty sure you won't stop with one.

     

    I then saw these scrappy trees – made from Fabric Twine.

    Oh my gosh. I LOVED making the twine – great for at the end of the day – keeping my hands busy while I watched my latest binge on Netflix. 

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    Another addictive activity – I loved the twining and I love the tree making and I love the final trees.  They filled me with joy and happiness – while I worked on them.

     

    That led to scrappy cards.  These were way too much fun. I had a packet of blank cards and envelopes from many years ago. I used what I had.  It was interesting to sew on paper – and so much easier than actual quilting. I will play more with this medium.

     

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    Those inspired Gift Tags. Smaller and I had to cut the paper etc. I kept them all trees. I didn't want to put too much time into these – this close to the show.

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    I would love to play more with fabric, inks and even paints on cards – no time now – but this has fueled a new avenue to explore.

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    I inherited a boat load of old jewelry and so I began to recycle it.  What fun this was. I found out I am pretty much a bohemian sorta girl.  I loved the imperfection of it all.  I got a few made for the show – but will continue to explore this after as well. 

     

    And, those led to Fiber Beads.  Oh My Gosh who knew there was even such a thing. In researching if you will – what to do with old jewelry I happened upon the fiber bead.

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    Again lots left to explore. An endless road of possibilities.  This new art also filled me up with new energy, ideas and joy.  

     

    In the midst of my own art journey my daughter came home – she wanted to do projects while here – one was to play with clay. What fun we had.

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    My girls did a much better job than I – handling the clay. But, I was still joyful in what I had made.  So these too will be part of my display at the show.



    So, I have expanded my art – I have tried new things and had a ton of fun playing.  

     

    Now the business side of the art is here. Pricing and anticipation of showing what you made.

    A part of my soul is in each piece or for sure a my signature expression.

     

    I am now tasked with pricing what I created.

    Putting a value on it.  

    There is a place where it honors the art, me and the customer.

     

    To all the artists who are in the show – this last week as you sit surrounded by your art – you look outward now to how others will receive it.  You start looking more critical or at least I do.   This is the hardest part of being an artist, show yourself in public.

     

    In this process the head takes over from the playful confident artist.

    This is where the judgement comes from – and the self-conscious part.

    If you give it free will, the head will convince you you are worthless – and so is your art.

    I am thinking that doing art allows me to live away from my head and all its rubbish.

    I also know that the energy I experienced while doing my art  - it is what is in my art – not the false words of my head.

     

    So, I just wanted to put this out there, for I know I am not alone.

    To all the artists that show and sell art – you are badass for taking what you created in private and put it on display for all to see.  

     

    What I love is to see new art, to witness creativity in action.  I LOVE art, the artists and the shows.  

    A friend reminded me, that by being in a show, it makes you more creative. I believe this to be true.  Without a show on the horizon – I don't believe I would have played so much.

     

    See my play on display on November 12 from 10am until 4pm at the Houghton High School – Keweenaw Art Affair.   

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • I live in peace

    Ten years ago today, I was the Keynote Speaker at Dial Help's Gala held at Michigan Tech. My Storyline quilts were also on display. I was going public in a fancy way.

     

    I remember the feelings of shame/anxiety and angst that collided with strength, empowerment and courage. I felt fear and bravely went ahead anyway. I also was excited to show my quilts – my journey in fabric. The beautiful colors, expressions and healing they held.

    A friend said, it was my coming out.

     

    In a way, it was me introducing me to the world – the me free from the cloud of denial. Yet she was fairly new to herself – I can see now – 10 years later.

     

    While I was in the healing process – and had uncovered and lay bare so much of my wound – I hadn't the time for re-growth. I was still pretty raw and yet I stood up and shared a part of the victim's journey.

    The main idea was to be the voice I had longed for, and to speak about what is most often kept silent.

     

    Having my quilts present with me, softened and made more palatable my words.

     

    Speaking truthfully about the reality of having a pedophile for a father and a mother who knew and allowed it to continue for generations – and how it sets you up in reality – was my tone for the talk.

     

    What is so hard for others to understand is how at 46 I suddenly knew what I didn't know before. How denial is just that denial. 

     

    When you are raised in a false landscape, you believe it to be your truth. You are not given both sides to debate with.  It is very difficult for my mind to understand the depth and darkness of denial – let alone explain it.  The sheer will of the mind is against you.

    What I know to be true, is that there are many souls who live in the land of denial. They believe in its false truths as if they were true.  They are lost among the false realities and are unaware.

    Many people believe that denial is a thing you contemplate and then execute. When in fact it happens prior to thought. 

    Or more, there is no other choice available.

    Until there is.

    You don't know what you don't know, until you know.

     

    My years of living in denial feel like a separate life – and I died in that one at 46.

     

    This second life I am living is so drastically different, I am a new me.

     

    The me I am today, even 10 years after the Gala is so much more at peace, in love and with joy – it is beyond what my imagination could imagine.

     

    I know that when I began walking out of denial – the future was a ghost on the horizon of 'someday'.

    I lived for this moment in time. I took one step at a time hoping I could change the legacy of my family.

    I wasn't following a pathway that held a specific destination or place marked "healed" or "whole" or even happy.  All I knew for sure, is that I couldn't repeat what I had lived through.  I wasn't going to be my mother whose blindness and ability to live well in denial cost so many little ones their innocence.

    I had to try and walk different. Live different and make choices that cost me my family of origin.

    I had to.

     

    I had to try. 

     

    I didn't once again know what I didn't know. 

    I was beginning a journey with a new self into a foreign land of truths and mental awareness. 

    And, I was taking my family with me – whether they knew it or not – we'd all experience the effects of my choices.  It wasn't easy for them – or for any one of us.  Being different isn't an easy role to live out. In dysfunctional families it often means estrangement. 

     

    We have to make the choices that separate us from the patterns and often that means ending relationships.  Anyone who sided with the pedophile was automatically distanced from.  There was no other way.

    There isn't a spot in a relationship that will tolerate child abuse – and family love.

    You simply cannot have both.

    You get to pick one.

     

    What I am most proud of is my ability to stay the course – losing so many along the way.

    The relationship deaths were and are, real deaths. 

    We ceased to exist for each other.

     

    The reason abuse continues on for generations is the inability to sever ties with family.

    Those who can, are becoming more and more common.  I do know others now who have left their families for the same reasons. Whereas ten years ago, I knew no one – only a few authors.

     

    Looking backwards over the years, I know it was hard and I am not sure where I got my inner determination and grit to stick it out. To walk away from a large family – but I did.

     

    I am hopeful as I watch the new generation of my family tree – move through life – they do now have both sides I didn't have. They have me speaking truthfully and acting out that truth, as I stay way from family functions – they are spared denial.

     

    Even if, or maybe especially if the reality is harsh and brutal and abuse of children happens – I will speak of it. I will do and say and be the one to says out loud – what needs to be said.

    The difference truth would have made to my childhood and the childhood of my sisters and our friends is quite shocking.  So many are now lost to themselves, their own truths and self-love, self-empowerment and a life free of denial.

     

    I think the biggest or greatest loss is the loss of self.  

    Denying our own truths, our hurts, our fears…and a clear mind.

    A mind that can hold even the most shocking of truths.

    Yet, often our denial begins with abuse and spares us the harsh reality we live in.

    So, while we live in the harsh reality, our minds transpose a nicer overlay of loving kindness.

     

    What I am most grateful for is being able to see – even if at first I saw too much – and that I had the ability to speak about what I saw and how it impacted my world.  How freeing it was to be able to walk hand and hand with the truth.  The more I shared and the more I wrote and posted, the more I defined me and began to build me.

     

    Ten years and counting from the gala – 17 years and counting waking up from denial.  I love who I am becoming.

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    If my legacy is to give other little girls the chance to know themselves and be themselves and live their truths – I live in peace.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • You be You; honestly.

    "Do you like these kind of quilts?" I heard a woman say to her friend – as they gazed at a wall where my art hung. "No" she replied.  And the first woman says, "Me neither, another thing we have in common."

     

    What they didn't know is that I was the artist, the woman who was just arranging things in the Gift Shop.

     

    They continued on browsing, visiting, commenting, and just being two women out and about.

     

    As they near the door where I was working, we struck up a conversation – just the usual customer chatter – and the more you visit, the more curious or questions you ask, in the back and forth.

     

    The first woman finally asks me, what sorta art I do.

     

    With a smile on my face and a direct look towards her I say, "The quilts on the wall over there."

     

    She knows immediately – that I know what she and her friend think of my art. They had given me their honest appraisal.

     

    Now, that she knows I am here in living color – the Artist to the Art – she tries to backpedal.

    In the backpedalling, she offers up, she is a retired Art Teacher.

    She offers up a few more things – but to me the most honest was her first response I over heard.

     

    It is funny how we want to soften up our honesty.

    Even in our liking or not liking of Art.

     

    Art is so personal and feeing invoking – that if it doesn't move you – it doesn't move.  No worries. 

     

    I am way way okay with folks not enjoying my art.

    I enjoy my art.

    I enjoy the process.

    I enjoy folks who love it enough to spend their hard earned money on it.

    I enjoy folks who want to bring it into their homes.

    And, I so understand those who feel differently.

     

    I love different art and art that moves something in me. I love when I feel joy and good energy when I see art that has somehow infused feelings inside of it.

     

    I think that there are levels of feelings in art.

    Safe ones and then those who push you to feel more.

    Even if it invokes negative ones. Your art moved them.

     

    The art teacher did offer up to me – she understood the hours of time and effort I had taken me to do what I do.

    I didn't probe their feelings as to why my art didn't move them. I just allowed them, with respect and kindness, to feel what they felt.

     

    I would prefer honesty.

    Always.

     

    She honestly felt something about my art.  

    I respect honest feelings.

     

    Just as I am not for everyone, neither is my art.

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    I love a world of color and contrast and depth the shallows and I love differences.

    I appreciate and love honesty above all.

    I love who I am and the freedom it gives me – and everyone.

    You be you; honestly.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Presence of Art

    Yesterday I was part of Art Week in Marquette, and it was about demonstrating your art – and I misunderstood and yet I overachieved.

    I brought way way too much art compared to the other artists.

    We were a small group.

    It is a new part of Art Week.

    There even was a painting class going on.

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    There were 4 trees and a lamppost that held the clothesline.  The committee envisioned my art in trees along the harbor to bring attention to this space. I believe I achieved that.

    Folks came from the end of the harbor, saying they had to come and see what this was about.

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    It truly was a Pop Up art show in Lower Harbor.  Where folks happen upon art in an unexpected way.

    I received so many wonderful compliments and brought giggles and joy.  A woman just kept saying, these make me so happy!!!  It felt good to hear others feel the good energy, joy and humor in my art.  The joy I have playing with fabric is clearly understood by those who were drawn to the quilts flapping in the breeze along the harbor.

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    Part of being an artist is to make others feel something.

    I love that my ladies ignite good feelings.

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    And, I did demonstrate – some of what I do, by machine quilting.  It was so nice to be outside sewing. The lighting was perfect, the temperatures amazing – and only a biting fly or two near the end. 

    It was fun to see the interest of young girls and them sharing with me what they have made.

    One quilter was so happy that Quilting was being represented in Art Week.

    So, I represented Fiber Arts – I achieved that.

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    Yesterday was a great reminder that being an artist isn't just about selling or the monetary value of our product. I felt the interest and curiosity others had. I was sharing a process and involving them in my art.

    It wasn't about me – it was about my art.

    My art has more value than its value.

    I hope that a few seeds were planted, that someone felt it was possible to play with fabrics and to toss aside patterns and do some free form sewing.

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    My daughter came with me – and we had a very nice afternoon by the water.  It was a relaxing show for her. I so appreciate her efforts in helping me set up and take down shows, not to mention handling sales.

    I am adding this last picture, even though the blog space may contort its clarity.  For some reason some pictures don't load correctly.

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    I love this, the lamppost, the water, the bench, the folks and my quilts.

     

    All in all, it was a great day.  I came and represented quilters and artists. I brought what I do and shared a part of the creation process.  I made a few new friends and introduced my art to more people.  

    Success is in the feelings.

    It was a gorgeous day in the harbor and we were there for 6.5 hours. In the shade, surrounded by quilts on the line. Boats floating by, bikers biking by and folks walking and having picnics and Artists doing their art.

    Perfection.

    Art Shows without selling, seem to be the most organic. And, as someone commented, more intimate. We had time to chat and exchange ideas. Time to visit and share our humanity. I felt like I was making so many new friends.

     

    I am glad I had this experience.

    To feel and value my art on a different level. 

     

    Don't get me wrong, I love when folks buy my art. I love that value too. I love when someone loves it enough to part with their hard earned money. I love being able to support my art with my art. 

    And yet, it was good to take money off the table and just be with the process and presence of art.