Life doesn't get easier. How does the saying go, no matter where we go, there we are. We can never get away from that unique set of challenges and strengths that make us who we are. We will never "get there", because no matter how far we go, the finish line recedes into the distance. We aren't meant to rest, we are meant to strive. Always pushing, always evolving. There is no stasis in nature. When we stop we begin to deteriorate. We are either going forwards, or backwards. One of my challenges is that I was born with a melancholy personality. I have realized over the years that I am almost more at rest when I am sad. Happiness makes me uncomfortable, I am always just waiting for it to crumble. I remember myself as a child: thin, weak, serious. While I didn't have the best family life, I surely didn't have the worst. It was in many ways very neutral. Uninspiring, safe. We weren't close emotionally, but I always knew they would be there for me physically. No heartfelt talks, encouragement, advice. My dad drank too much, my mom ate too much. They coped with their lives, avoided any real authenticity. To be authentic. That really is at the root of what I have tried to be in my life. To love myself enough to be honest, open, to live in a way that isn't just survival. Have I succeeded? In some ways. I'm proud of my motherhood. I'm proud that I think my children know who I am. Warts and all. That I have avoided, for the most part, being hypocritical. That they can talk to me about anything, that they aren't afraid to talk about anything, to question anything. But at the same time I hope I have taught them loyalty, unconditional love. I've taught them to work, to not take things for granted. To not expect anyone but themselves to make their lives work. To not make excuses. Was I, am I, the perfect Mom? Far from it. But they are all three good, loving, hardworking, honest, authentic people. And I am very, very proud of them.
Moving up to Oregon has turned out very differently than I thought. I thought I was coming up here to semi-retire. To work part time at a low stress job. To have time to make a home, a garden, a relationship with my husband, and develop my art. Instead I find myself in the most stressful job I've had since the newspaper 15 years ago. I am far from my kids, who have been my life for so long. I can't be there to help them, or hold them. I've gained weight, am going through menopause. I feel more tired, less well than I've ever felt in my life. My creativity is sapped by a job I don't like, and more importantly don't feel represents who I am or what I believe in. It is the antithesis really. I go to work, drink too much, watch too much TV, and try desperately on the weekend to fight the lethargy and emptiness to do what I want to be doing. I am full of resentment, anger and loneliness. I cry often, I feel defeated most of the time. I'm even afraid if I didn't have to work and had the time to do what I want to do, that I wouldn't. That I would just drink more, eat more, watch more TV, sleep more, and truly devolve into an empty shell. I know I need to get a grip and take control. When I was younger and had gotten myself into a place like this, it was always knowing I had to do this for the kids that would pull me out of it. They had no one but me, I had to be an example for them. I had to provide for them, I had to make their home as pleasant and nurturing as I could. And I couldn't be depressed and do that. I don't have that incentive anymore. Though I know I still do. I need to be there for them still. They need to have an example in their lives of someone who takes responsibility for their own happiness. I want to give that to them. My parents couldn't do that for me, they couldn't show me how. Somehow I have to evolve past that. I know some of it is changing the way I think about happiness. I've always been envious of the happiness I thought I saw in other people's lives. A husband, children, a house, a good job. And as I achieve each of these things I go back to my first comment. Wherever I go, there I am. Happiness isn't in achieving things, it is in the struggle to achieve them. Happiness isn't a static place, it is a journey. The journey of happiness. It changes every day, every week and every year. We can step out on this journey at any moment, and in that one step, we have arrived. We are on the path, we are experiencing the journey of happiness. I get side tracked. I go down little side trails that lead nowhere. And sometimes I'm just standing right next to the path staring out in a different direction. Toward that desert of self doubt and powerlessness. And that's where I am now. And that's why I'm turning around, yet once more. The details, the how's and whens and whys. Those appear like signposts once I get back on the right road. I know that. A simple change in direction, a single step, that's all that's needed. I just smiled, and felt a weight fall from my shoulders. I know I can do it, I've done it before in much harder circumstances. The journey never ends, the journey of happiness never ends, unless we sit down, or turn away. And it is always there waiting for us to get back to it. May I rejoice in the journey, and meet and encourage many other travelers on the way.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Ramblings at 50
Invisible middle age. The end of the drive to procreate and protect the young. The habits and responsibilities of daily life hard earned and deeply engrained. The good employee, responsible, reliable. Keeping the wheels turning and the lights on.
There was a time of lashing out against the death of dreams, but it is a distant memory. Those few dreams achieved only a ghost of that youthful vision, Now just grateful for health, home, lack of conflict. The retreat into the pleasant, the beautiful, the soothing.
The realization that there are no answers, no right way. Only questions and conversations.
And arguments.
Having lived through the past only showing us how wrongly it has been interpreted. And so realizing our interpretations of our parents and grandparents times were just as flawed.
So little invested in what is most important. So much invested in dust.
I always thought I could make some sort of difference. But I haven’t. I fight my own demons, just struggling to stay productive and in the “normal” range. Fearing poverty, loneliness, disconnection. Fearing my own thoughts. The never ending judgement. What am I doing with my life? Am I doing right? Is the world a better place because of me? I can never rest and enjoy life for more than a few minutes. It has to have Meaning. And yet I don’t know what that Meaning is. I am condemned to search for it like the end of a rainbow. It can’t be reached. Whenever I feel it for a moment it moves on just out of reach. How strange that the rainbow is a symbol of lighthearted happiness. That is was God’s symbol of his promise of no more floods. That which is beguilingly beautiful, that beckons us to it, but can never be reached and only moves further away if we try to reach it. The ultimate in empty promise. There is no rainbow. It is a trick of light reflected through water. It is always there and never there.
What kind of existence is this? Why do I feel so absolutely separate from everyone, and yet know that we are all connected. Why do I feel so deeply the pain in the world and yet am powerless to affect it. And if I were to drop out of the mainstream and spend my time in some sort of pursuit of a difference, I would bring pain to the few people that are a part of my life. I struggle to overcome my own weaknesses. To strengthen my body and will. But when I do, what is the purpose. Ten years ago I decided to get in shape. I worked out 6 days a week. I focused on my clothes, my hair. I tanned and lost weight. I looked better at 41 than ever in my life. I attracted a man who was attracted to the surface. He was cool, rich, and fun. And empty. I could clearly feel the empty gaping hole that his soul should fill. Instead it cowered in a corner. But he had more power over me that I had ever felt. I was powerless. And inevitably I was used and discarded like last season’s fashion. I was too old to fit into his plan. But had I been younger, I would be there. Caught in that web. What is that about? How can I feel so overwhelmed by that which I have spent my life mocking?
I drink to hide from myself. From my hypocrisy. From the illusion of choice. The curse of Free Will. And the drinking leaves me empty and weak. Guilty, emotional, confused, powerless. It takes my power and leaves me empty. I hide from the emptiness which only feeds it.
I work. I sift numbers through my fingers. Lining them up in neat rows and columns. Tabulating, formulating, analyzing. Numbers that represent dollars, hours, goods, people. Tiny stories of meals, meetings, conversations. Mugs and glasses and bottles of wasted life and superficial connection. The numbers always calculate, they obediently report. The truly heartfelt and the most banal read exactly the same. More is good. Less is bad. Its not personal, its business. There is no content, only form.
But there is a beauty and clarity in the completely objective. It drowns out the demons. For the moment.
On the weekend I rush to Enjoy my life. To Relax and Unwind. Having toiled in my place at the wheel, I now have permission to rest. The work is a justification of my existence. It has no intrinsic worth. It is a game to pass the time. I drink to numb the thoughts, quell the panic of the claustrophobia. In the middle of the night I wake, the alcohol worn off, the mind rested and unprotected. The yearning for understanding, for a clear vision of the path to take. Small visions that dry up in the glaring daylight. I prefer my sleep world. I prefer the unfettered experience. The feeling of those experiences having some sort of meaning, some symbolism. No judgement. The cool sparkling clarity of a moonlit night. Serene in blue and grey.
I alternate between feeling the only answer is to give up. To just numb the pain and watch the drama play out. Uninvolved, uninvested, unconnected. But then I panic, an elemental survival response. I will NEVER give up. I’ll keep loving passionately and failing miserably. Keep questioning and testing answers. Keep evolving, changing, thinking, living. Keep trying.
There are no right answers in a lifetime. Only right answers for the moment. There are no endpoints, no pots of gold. Only quests, no holy grails. That which we grasp and clutch to our bosom envelops us and binds us. When we stop we become a rusting relic in a fallow field, overgrown by weeds and vines, never to matter again. Only a nostalgic curiosity for the passerby.
I am so tired from the struggle, but I can’t give it up. I have to shake off the lethargy. Redefine my values. Dissemble the protective armor and stand in the face of the storm. At least to experience the full power of it before it carries me away.
There was a time of lashing out against the death of dreams, but it is a distant memory. Those few dreams achieved only a ghost of that youthful vision, Now just grateful for health, home, lack of conflict. The retreat into the pleasant, the beautiful, the soothing.
The realization that there are no answers, no right way. Only questions and conversations.
And arguments.
Having lived through the past only showing us how wrongly it has been interpreted. And so realizing our interpretations of our parents and grandparents times were just as flawed.
So little invested in what is most important. So much invested in dust.
I always thought I could make some sort of difference. But I haven’t. I fight my own demons, just struggling to stay productive and in the “normal” range. Fearing poverty, loneliness, disconnection. Fearing my own thoughts. The never ending judgement. What am I doing with my life? Am I doing right? Is the world a better place because of me? I can never rest and enjoy life for more than a few minutes. It has to have Meaning. And yet I don’t know what that Meaning is. I am condemned to search for it like the end of a rainbow. It can’t be reached. Whenever I feel it for a moment it moves on just out of reach. How strange that the rainbow is a symbol of lighthearted happiness. That is was God’s symbol of his promise of no more floods. That which is beguilingly beautiful, that beckons us to it, but can never be reached and only moves further away if we try to reach it. The ultimate in empty promise. There is no rainbow. It is a trick of light reflected through water. It is always there and never there.
What kind of existence is this? Why do I feel so absolutely separate from everyone, and yet know that we are all connected. Why do I feel so deeply the pain in the world and yet am powerless to affect it. And if I were to drop out of the mainstream and spend my time in some sort of pursuit of a difference, I would bring pain to the few people that are a part of my life. I struggle to overcome my own weaknesses. To strengthen my body and will. But when I do, what is the purpose. Ten years ago I decided to get in shape. I worked out 6 days a week. I focused on my clothes, my hair. I tanned and lost weight. I looked better at 41 than ever in my life. I attracted a man who was attracted to the surface. He was cool, rich, and fun. And empty. I could clearly feel the empty gaping hole that his soul should fill. Instead it cowered in a corner. But he had more power over me that I had ever felt. I was powerless. And inevitably I was used and discarded like last season’s fashion. I was too old to fit into his plan. But had I been younger, I would be there. Caught in that web. What is that about? How can I feel so overwhelmed by that which I have spent my life mocking?
I drink to hide from myself. From my hypocrisy. From the illusion of choice. The curse of Free Will. And the drinking leaves me empty and weak. Guilty, emotional, confused, powerless. It takes my power and leaves me empty. I hide from the emptiness which only feeds it.
I work. I sift numbers through my fingers. Lining them up in neat rows and columns. Tabulating, formulating, analyzing. Numbers that represent dollars, hours, goods, people. Tiny stories of meals, meetings, conversations. Mugs and glasses and bottles of wasted life and superficial connection. The numbers always calculate, they obediently report. The truly heartfelt and the most banal read exactly the same. More is good. Less is bad. Its not personal, its business. There is no content, only form.
But there is a beauty and clarity in the completely objective. It drowns out the demons. For the moment.
On the weekend I rush to Enjoy my life. To Relax and Unwind. Having toiled in my place at the wheel, I now have permission to rest. The work is a justification of my existence. It has no intrinsic worth. It is a game to pass the time. I drink to numb the thoughts, quell the panic of the claustrophobia. In the middle of the night I wake, the alcohol worn off, the mind rested and unprotected. The yearning for understanding, for a clear vision of the path to take. Small visions that dry up in the glaring daylight. I prefer my sleep world. I prefer the unfettered experience. The feeling of those experiences having some sort of meaning, some symbolism. No judgement. The cool sparkling clarity of a moonlit night. Serene in blue and grey.
I alternate between feeling the only answer is to give up. To just numb the pain and watch the drama play out. Uninvolved, uninvested, unconnected. But then I panic, an elemental survival response. I will NEVER give up. I’ll keep loving passionately and failing miserably. Keep questioning and testing answers. Keep evolving, changing, thinking, living. Keep trying.
There are no right answers in a lifetime. Only right answers for the moment. There are no endpoints, no pots of gold. Only quests, no holy grails. That which we grasp and clutch to our bosom envelops us and binds us. When we stop we become a rusting relic in a fallow field, overgrown by weeds and vines, never to matter again. Only a nostalgic curiosity for the passerby.
I am so tired from the struggle, but I can’t give it up. I have to shake off the lethargy. Redefine my values. Dissemble the protective armor and stand in the face of the storm. At least to experience the full power of it before it carries me away.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Watchful
This is my most recent painting. It's done in acrylics on 11X14 canvas. I'm drawn to farm animals. I didn't grow up on a farm, though my grandmother did. They also had a large garden in their retirement years. I was driving around one day and came accross this field full of sheep. I stopped to take some photos. The sun was going down casting a low warm light on everything. There is something about domesticated animals that I find disturbing. It's not that I'm a vegetarian, but I know if I had to kill the animals to eat meat I probably would be a vegetarian. Sheep are so fluffy, and dumb. Yet the feeling I got from this mama sheep was definately a bit threatening. She kept walking right towards me where I was snapping pics at the fence. It may be my own unfamiliarity with farm animals that gives me that feeling. I don't know. Farm animals are often depicted as happy, dumb creatures. They probably are. But I was struck by the tension between the fluffy, happy sheep stereotype and this rather large threatening animal. Plus they are cool. Anyway. Thought I'd paint them. By the way, it's for sale if you are interested.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Lately I have been a victim of hummingbird mind. I have many ideas for paintings in my head, and I flit from one to another like a hummingbird. I've had three commissions in the last couple of months. All were from small, bad photos. Portraits of people I have never met. Those are really so hard. I did an okay job on them. The likesness was good. I don't think the likeness can ever be great when you haven't spent any time with the person. I get a feel for who they are through the photo, but its pretty weak. The whole process was work, and not all that enjoyable. I was thrilled to get it. And thrilled that I'm finally making some money. But it seems to have undermined my creativity. I've started a couple a new paintings, but I can't seem to get a clear vision of where I'm going. And it's not good enough anymore to just copy what's in the photo. I want to put more of myself into it. But I'm not sure my skills are up to it yet. I started a landscape, a canoe backlit by morning light on a lake. The photo is all greys, very little color. But in my vision of it I see a beautiful sunrise reflecting in the lake. The composition is very nice, the values strong, so it seemed a perfect candidate to experiment with color from my own vision. I see other paintings that I love. They are usually done in clear pure colors, realistic but simplified. No mud. I work in watercolors these days so mud is an issue. When I look at a subject there is always a lot of grey and brown. And yet I see paintings where these colors have been translated into beautiful pure color. As I'm trying with this landscape though the colors just aren't working. There are too many, or they don't harmonize. And my darks always get a matte dull look to them. Well. I need to get back to the studio and keep trying.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Living with Art
First post here. I'd like to maintain this blog to explore my feelings and experiences on my journey with art. I discovered art very late in life - about 45. I am so very glad I did, but I also regret all those lost years. I know I won't have enough time to really develop my vision, but it doesn't matter. If I hadn't discovered it I would be still trying to find the outlet I searched for all my life.
I've always felt I was an artist, but having grown up in public schools, I learned early on that a person either has IT or doesn't. And I didn't. According to teachers and parents. Strangely enough my mother always wanted to be an artist. She used to tell me she had named me Karen so that my initials would be KAN and showed me how to draw a little can to sign my art with! It seems so strange to me that she didn't encourage me. And yet I think it was that she wanted to be an artist, and never developed it. So she couldn't see her way to it for herself or me. She used to buy us paint by numbers and we spent many a happy hour doing them together.
Why did I feel I was an artist? I have a great deal of patience, and ability to focus for hours on end on a project. In my pre-art life it was knitting, crocheting, sewing, embroidery. I seem to see the world differently than most people I know. I've always been "smart" and was on that track in school, but never really fit in with the other kids. I've always been too passionate. I can be totally enthralled by something I see. I seem to be an odd combination of very visual, sensual and passionate. At the same time, especially for a woman, I am very left brained and analytical.
And color. It is really color that I long to express. I've always been enthralled by color. Its' such a strange experience I find it very difficult to describe.
It's very interesting to me that as I try to explore this experience of creating art, words fail me. For a long time I thought I was going to be a writer. And yet art takes me to another place in my mind. It lets me express things that words can't. The process of translating the experience into words limits it. My technical abilities in art are still limiting me. But I can sense that the potential is there. A single image can't be totally pinned down. It ignites the visual mind and creates bridges and pathways to experiences, images, thoughts that may have been lost for years. Or that lay just beyond, in the fog out there somewhere.
So, as I blog along, I hope to discover some insight along the way. Signposts hidden in my mind.
I've always felt I was an artist, but having grown up in public schools, I learned early on that a person either has IT or doesn't. And I didn't. According to teachers and parents. Strangely enough my mother always wanted to be an artist. She used to tell me she had named me Karen so that my initials would be KAN and showed me how to draw a little can to sign my art with! It seems so strange to me that she didn't encourage me. And yet I think it was that she wanted to be an artist, and never developed it. So she couldn't see her way to it for herself or me. She used to buy us paint by numbers and we spent many a happy hour doing them together.
Why did I feel I was an artist? I have a great deal of patience, and ability to focus for hours on end on a project. In my pre-art life it was knitting, crocheting, sewing, embroidery. I seem to see the world differently than most people I know. I've always been "smart" and was on that track in school, but never really fit in with the other kids. I've always been too passionate. I can be totally enthralled by something I see. I seem to be an odd combination of very visual, sensual and passionate. At the same time, especially for a woman, I am very left brained and analytical.
And color. It is really color that I long to express. I've always been enthralled by color. Its' such a strange experience I find it very difficult to describe.
It's very interesting to me that as I try to explore this experience of creating art, words fail me. For a long time I thought I was going to be a writer. And yet art takes me to another place in my mind. It lets me express things that words can't. The process of translating the experience into words limits it. My technical abilities in art are still limiting me. But I can sense that the potential is there. A single image can't be totally pinned down. It ignites the visual mind and creates bridges and pathways to experiences, images, thoughts that may have been lost for years. Or that lay just beyond, in the fog out there somewhere.
So, as I blog along, I hope to discover some insight along the way. Signposts hidden in my mind.
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