I'm not an artist and can't even muster the ability to plop a decent spoon onto a piece of paper, but I do enjoy looking at good art, surrealism especially. Kailee is my favorite artist though I'm not sure what type of art that she works in. It's darker than my newest obsession (not as good as Kailee), Carrie Ann Baade. Whoa! I remember seeing Baade's works at a gallery in Santa Fe called the Pop Gallery. It was love at first sight.
Baade's work uses rich color and a very surreal way of painting peoples' eyes to evoke wonder in the viewer. Her paintings are both inspirational and awe-inspiring. I looked at her paintings for half an hour today while listening to music (good music, good paintings: Baade looks better when listening to And One, Goldfrapp, Bjork, and Greg Maroney) and am decidedly in love with The Involuntary Thoughts of Lady Caroline Dubois. It was the first painting that I ever saw of hers, and it has stuck in my head like a visual harpoon. Yup yup yup.
Over the couple of times that I've sat down to look over her work, I've come to be a fan of numerous of her paintings. After the aforementioned Lady Caroline Dubois, I find myself in full-on squee mode when it comes to True Love on the Eve of the Apocalypse.
Check out a few of her paintings, ja!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I'm a teacher.
I decided, and Theresa-the-director agreed, that I would have my head shaved with the entire cast present. I thought it would be a nice teaching moment, showing the students in the cast that a job worth doing is worth... you know the cliche.
What they learned is what a coward I am. Linann, the wonderful lady with the brand new clippers, was waiting for me when I got to the theatre. She didn't give me much time to think about it, but directed me to the chair immediately. She turned me away from the mirror, gave me a hug, and turned on the clippers.
I immediately began crying. Clippers off. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?" she asked me.
I composed myself best I could, then gave her the go-ahead. Clippers on. I begin screaming and kicking my legs. Clippers off.
"Just do it!" I shout. Or I think I did. I may have just thought it. Then, suddenly and in one smooth move, Linann turned on the clippers and took a swath out of the back of my head.
Sometimes, you just have to rip off the bandage.
What they learned is what a coward I am. Linann, the wonderful lady with the brand new clippers, was waiting for me when I got to the theatre. She didn't give me much time to think about it, but directed me to the chair immediately. She turned me away from the mirror, gave me a hug, and turned on the clippers.
I immediately began crying. Clippers off. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?" she asked me.
I composed myself best I could, then gave her the go-ahead. Clippers on. I begin screaming and kicking my legs. Clippers off.
"Just do it!" I shout. Or I think I did. I may have just thought it. Then, suddenly and in one smooth move, Linann turned on the clippers and took a swath out of the back of my head.
Sometimes, you just have to rip off the bandage.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Hair today, gone tomorrow...
LEST there is any doubt as to the power words yield, I am today eating a bit of crow. It does not taste much like chicken.
It is so very easy to throw out words casually, to say such things as "I would shave my head for this role if it had to be done" when I think there's no danger that those words would stick to the wall.
But they have stuck to the wall. Quite soundly. And I am now accountable to them. This afternoon I am reporting to the costume shop to have my head shaved for the play.
Beware of your words-- they never forget. And when you least expect them, they come home like unemployed children for extended stays.
I'm trying to turn this surreal, Brechtean experience into something useful, like an extended blog life. I think I raced through all the stages of grief in about two hours last night, so now I'm a bit in a numb state, which is probably where I should be until the deed is done. But eventually I'll catch up on my sleep, probably long before my hair grows out, so I need more words to stick up on the wall to get me through.
It IS just hair. I get that-- intellectually. My fear is grounded in vanity-- I get that. To continue pursuing the makeup route will be very, very detrimental to me, as I have discovered how much spirit gum and acetone can burn the skin of the face and neck. Plus, looking like an alien bursting through someone else's skin is most definitely NOT the look we want. I get it. I get it.
But I'm still flirting with a panic attack.
For those who have lost or are losing their hair because of chemotherapy, my deepest apologies for the vanity and pity-party tone of this piece. I cannot imagine your struggle. But I will be sending my prayers out with each piece of hair that falls on the floor today.
It is so very easy to throw out words casually, to say such things as "I would shave my head for this role if it had to be done" when I think there's no danger that those words would stick to the wall.
But they have stuck to the wall. Quite soundly. And I am now accountable to them. This afternoon I am reporting to the costume shop to have my head shaved for the play.
Beware of your words-- they never forget. And when you least expect them, they come home like unemployed children for extended stays.
I'm trying to turn this surreal, Brechtean experience into something useful, like an extended blog life. I think I raced through all the stages of grief in about two hours last night, so now I'm a bit in a numb state, which is probably where I should be until the deed is done. But eventually I'll catch up on my sleep, probably long before my hair grows out, so I need more words to stick up on the wall to get me through.
It IS just hair. I get that-- intellectually. My fear is grounded in vanity-- I get that. To continue pursuing the makeup route will be very, very detrimental to me, as I have discovered how much spirit gum and acetone can burn the skin of the face and neck. Plus, looking like an alien bursting through someone else's skin is most definitely NOT the look we want. I get it. I get it.
But I'm still flirting with a panic attack.
For those who have lost or are losing their hair because of chemotherapy, my deepest apologies for the vanity and pity-party tone of this piece. I cannot imagine your struggle. But I will be sending my prayers out with each piece of hair that falls on the floor today.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Storytelling
I have been hard at work on a play the past few weeks, hence my long absence from posting. It is my first time on stage in... a long time... so between the rehearsal process, keeping up with student essays, and wrestling the constant voice asking me What were you thinking! it has been an exhausting and absolutely incredible few weeks.
The play is called Wit and is about an English Literature Professor named Vivian Bearing, who is dying from ovarian cancer. The play is her journey from the intellectual world into the emotional one. It has also been a spiritual journey for me. Not only playing this incredible woman, but relearning so many things about myself I had forgotten or put away in the closet. Way, way back of the closet.
My students have been waiting, probably less anxiously than me, to see if I would relent and shave my head for the role. I thought it prudent to warn them of the possibility to save myself countless denials that I am myself dying. Fortunately, the hair will remain. But it was interesting to realize that if push came to shove, I would have let the hair go. Not because I am such an artist, but because I am learning-- relearning-- to be one.
I had forgotten just how much I love the theatre. Every part of it-- I don't need to be on stage to feel at home there. In fact, I much prefer writing and directing. The nausea level on opening night is about the same, but I find it more magical to hear my words coming from a good actor than my own words never fully doing justice to another writer's words.
But the greatest thing about theatre is the storytelling. I am a storyteller. I always have been, and the theatre is the place I can do this without becoming a liar. I can tell a story on stage and it is accepted, embraced, sometimes even applauded. If I tell the same story outside the theatre, it is met with skepticism, raised eyebrows, questions of "Is that true?" This usually happens in class after I have told some poignant story to illustrate a point or illustrate a rhetorical mode. My students listen to me weave a story about Hannah, a beautiful four year-old who wants to become a veterinarian when she grows up, but is killed by a drunk driver; or about my grandfather taking me to the state fair in his '59 Chevy pickup with the torn seat covers and Hank Williams, Jr. playing on the eight-track. Perhaps the stories are true. Perhaps only one is. Perhaps neither. But, in some way, every story contains truth, so why do we question?
In the theatre, we don't. We allow the story to unwind and are willing to accept. This is called suspension of disbelief. Even when we become aware of our disbelief, in the darkness of the theatre we are more willing to ignore it. We become like children, believing once again in fairy tales, tall tales, myths, legends, and folklore. That's not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.
The play is called Wit and is about an English Literature Professor named Vivian Bearing, who is dying from ovarian cancer. The play is her journey from the intellectual world into the emotional one. It has also been a spiritual journey for me. Not only playing this incredible woman, but relearning so many things about myself I had forgotten or put away in the closet. Way, way back of the closet.
My students have been waiting, probably less anxiously than me, to see if I would relent and shave my head for the role. I thought it prudent to warn them of the possibility to save myself countless denials that I am myself dying. Fortunately, the hair will remain. But it was interesting to realize that if push came to shove, I would have let the hair go. Not because I am such an artist, but because I am learning-- relearning-- to be one.
I had forgotten just how much I love the theatre. Every part of it-- I don't need to be on stage to feel at home there. In fact, I much prefer writing and directing. The nausea level on opening night is about the same, but I find it more magical to hear my words coming from a good actor than my own words never fully doing justice to another writer's words.
But the greatest thing about theatre is the storytelling. I am a storyteller. I always have been, and the theatre is the place I can do this without becoming a liar. I can tell a story on stage and it is accepted, embraced, sometimes even applauded. If I tell the same story outside the theatre, it is met with skepticism, raised eyebrows, questions of "Is that true?" This usually happens in class after I have told some poignant story to illustrate a point or illustrate a rhetorical mode. My students listen to me weave a story about Hannah, a beautiful four year-old who wants to become a veterinarian when she grows up, but is killed by a drunk driver; or about my grandfather taking me to the state fair in his '59 Chevy pickup with the torn seat covers and Hank Williams, Jr. playing on the eight-track. Perhaps the stories are true. Perhaps only one is. Perhaps neither. But, in some way, every story contains truth, so why do we question?
In the theatre, we don't. We allow the story to unwind and are willing to accept. This is called suspension of disbelief. Even when we become aware of our disbelief, in the darkness of the theatre we are more willing to ignore it. We become like children, believing once again in fairy tales, tall tales, myths, legends, and folklore. That's not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Farewell, Molly
Did it. Sold Kailee's beloved Mazda, Molly. I'm comforted that she's going to a good home (the car, not Kailee), a cute couple with three little boys. Lisa, the new owner, is quite excited about her car.
I'm slightly less excited.
I'm not sure what it is-- it is, after all, just a car, but...
Ok, I'll admit it. As long as Molly was in the driveway, I could pretend that Kailee was just on an extended trip. But now, the empty driveway sends me a very clear message. Kailee has moved away.
Lest anyone think I'm crying on my keyboard as I type this, let me assure you I am more intrigued than depressed. After all, I've never sent a child into the world, so all this is new. I'm excited for Kailee, and feel completely comfortable with her readiness for college and beyond. And of course I miss her, terribly. It's an odd feeling, trying to reconcile both emotions. I feel like an ice cream cone, a chocolate and vanilla twist.
If I were Paul McCartney I could turn all of this into a great song for the ages. Here, I give a heavy sigh at my inadequate attempts to capture the place I'm at. But more than that, talk of chocolate and vanilla ice cream has me craving a trip to Dairy Queen.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
[whatever]
It's a rule, apparently, to keep a public journal, so I've made a lazy post to satisfy the requirement for making an update once every year or so. My life since the last update will be the sort-of topic. Whatever.
Over the course of the week, I discovered my my new favorite video of all time. It. Is. Incredible. And funny. Even if I'll never Sigur Ros live (sigh), I can always entertain myself with this.
Jet's Big Day, the day of his rabies shots, was pulled off with success. Success with Jet comes about as often as an opportunity to attend a Sigur Ros, but Jet was a good boy who did not (as in, failed) to eat the cat in front of him in line to get his shot at the clinic. And he took his shot like a gentleman. Good boy, Jet. We took him to Petco as part deux of his Big Day and he had an accident in the store. But he got a bone that's buried somewhere in the backyard. Somewhere. With the chunks of tree, pieces of grill, and deceased pets of years past. He'll dig it up someday.
And finally some quality comedy from Hugh and Stephen- can't go wrong there or here or here.
Over the course of the week, I discovered my my new favorite video of all time. It. Is. Incredible. And funny. Even if I'll never Sigur Ros live (sigh), I can always entertain myself with this.
Jet's Big Day, the day of his rabies shots, was pulled off with success. Success with Jet comes about as often as an opportunity to attend a Sigur Ros, but Jet was a good boy who did not (as in, failed) to eat the cat in front of him in line to get his shot at the clinic. And he took his shot like a gentleman. Good boy, Jet. We took him to Petco as part deux of his Big Day and he had an accident in the store. But he got a bone that's buried somewhere in the backyard. Somewhere. With the chunks of tree, pieces of grill, and deceased pets of years past. He'll dig it up someday.
And finally some quality comedy from Hugh and Stephen- can't go wrong there or here or here.
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