You know about abstract art. It is all about shapes and colors, light and dark, and most definitely not about showing what things really look like. There is reality, and there is abstraction. They are two different things. Right?
Right.
So imagine my surprise when I looked at my photos from our trip to Fort Stevens beach and saw a whole lot of abstraction. Lines. Fragments. Blobs.
If I did the research, I could write a thousand words on the psychological connections between reality and abstraction. Some Ph.d’s undoubtedly have.
But I just wanted to show you some really pretty, interesting shapes that I will be playing with in my paintbox. And to show that the line between reality and abstraction isn’t so clear, after all.
We have all been on edge the last few years. We had uneasy feelings brought on an unstable person in the White House. Our new President has been around for years, and we know what to expect. I have not always agreed with him, but he is, most definitely, not nuts.
A good thing to be able to say about one’s President, as it turns out.
Agile little buggers…
But you know who IS nuts? Squirrels. And January 21st is Squirrel Appreciation Day, so I am appreciating them.
And I love ‘em! These fluffy streaks scamper about our sidewalks, power lines and rooftops. They chatter at us from trees and shinny around trunks to stay just out of sight. They make adorable grey arches as they rainbow hop across the road.
Squirrels have helped make our Lone Fir Cemetery what it is today, their forgetfulness accidentally planting of hundreds of trees.
Squirrels can be a nuisance. They can get in attics and chew wires, not to mention making nests where they are not welcome. I’m sure they make terrible roommates.
But outside, in the park, on the roofs or lurking on the other side of a tree trunk, they are adorable.
And that’s your dose of silliness from Portland for today.
We have been very caught up in the excitement about Mr. Trump’s leaving the White House and President-Elect Biden’s inauguration. Grandpa Nelson and I have been following the news for who was getting pardoned, who was being appointed, and what was going to happen next. Maybe we were a little too focused.
So Grandpa Nelson decided we needed a day away from the computer, ipads and television. Auntie Bridgett was enlisted and we all went to the beach.
The bright day glowed as we drove west across the Tualatin Valley and into the Coastal range. The forest was a combination of blinding sun and deep shade, acting like a strobe as we zipped past. Since it was the day after the MLK holiday, traffic was light.
Since Covid has made us wary of any restaurants with only indoor seating, we went right past Camp18, a delightful log cabin that serves enormous cinnamon rolls. In Gearhart, we found GrizzlyTuna, a tiny drive-through serving tuna and chips, fish tacos, and other (mostly) fried goodies. We grabbed some for Auntie Bridgett and me, then drove to Dairy Queen for Grandpa Nelson, and ate right in the car.
We continued up to Fort Stevens State Beach and the wreck of the Peter Iredale. This is one of my favorite places on the coast so far. The wide, flat beach is great for walking, and the long views and whipping wind are good for over-stuffed, urbanized brains. It was sparkling, chilly, and wonderful.
We did notice something we weren’t as crazy about, though. Cars on the beach. This is an historic thing on the Oregon Coast, actually. Years ago, when the roads between small towns weren’t very good, the wide, flat beach was the best route. Now that the roads are smooth and reliable, most folks use them. But driving on the beach is still allowed, and a few trucks made zipping passes as we walked along.
We walked, as my Dad would say, “until we were half tired”, and found a nice long to sit on. We didn’t talk much, just stared at the waves and the tiny sandpipers, watched Auntie Bridgett sketch, and thought non-political thoughts.
When it was time to go, Auntie Bridgett found a surprisingly heavy stick, which she immediately adopted and began dragging along. We named it Sticky and traded off walking it down the beach, pulling it along like a reluctant pet. We walked and dragged, all the way back up to the wreck of the Peter Iredale, and left Sticky there, resting against the iron ship’s remaining ribs.
We tucked into the car and followed the Columbia River home, gawking at tiny towns and enjoying glittering views of the river through bare winter trees. The sun was just going down as we pulled into Portland, got stuck in traffic on the Fremont Bridge, made a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong side of the river, and eventually got home.
Yesterday was busy! I walked down to Auntie Katie’s to deliver some cookies, made art with stencils, and got a bunch of essays edited. It felt good to be accomplishing things.
I also finished a non-dominant (lefty) piece that I started last week. . It was the most difficult so far, and it took days of on and off work. My left hand isn’t very strong and working with it is hard, so I only do about an hour at a time.
I decided to copy my photo of a bridge at Cambridge, England. The reflections and delicate windows are just beautiful.
So lovely!
I knew it was going to be hard, but easy stuff doesn’t make me smarter, and if it was horrible, I could always tear it out of the journal. I started, wiggly lines and all, feeling worse and worse about it as I went on.
Not so much…..
I was so discouraged I put it away. But after a few days I remembered Picasso’s statement that if, at some point, you don’t hate a piece, you will never make anything worthwhile. I decided to give it another chance.
Better!
I got the watercolors out and, still left handed, started adding color. Watercolor always needs layers and layers to look right, so my lazy left got a workout. That took another long afternoon of painting and drying, and painting some more. It was better! I got out the colored pencils to give some stronger edges on the bridge and bricks, and eventually was satisfied. It could stay in the journal, though I think it still needs some shading.
I used to think that if you weren’t “good enough” at art, or music, or whatever, you were ‘wasting your time’. I now know that it isn’t being good at art that is the point, it is simply the doing. What you can learn about yourself as you peer closely at things and try and make sense of them with pencil and paper are all part of understanding who you can be.
It has been a fun, happy, busy weekend! I made a stencil I really like to use in my Art Journal. So far I haven’t finished with it yet, but it is showing promise.
Fun with stencils
I also started whacking away at the two dozen or so blogs I have written about our wonderful, historic Lone Fir Cemetery. I started simply copying them, then realized that with just a little tweaking, there is a story there about Portland’s history that could be worth telling. I am currently paddling in some very deep water, and enjoying it very much.
Little Ada Smith
There was also a delightful surprise purchase from Jehnee Rains, who runs Suzette, our nearby Creperie. Since she has has greatly reduced business for the ten months of quarantine, she is selling a lot of her catering supplies to raise a bit of cash and simplify her life. Auntie Bridgett saw some ‘bee’ themed bottles she wanted, and I saw cookie cutters, so we threw on clothes some and walked over.
I now have these great beauties to play with, and the cookie dough mixed for delivery to Auntie Katie and the cousins.
Score!
I also found a map of Portland I was sewing on last winter and ran out of inspiration for, which is looking more promising now.
Downtown, the Willamette, and our Sunnyside neighborhood
I feel like I’m gunning my engine at the starting line, and can’t decide which race track to run first. I need to take a breath and focus…. or not. I’m sure it will all work out.
This has been a good week for figuring stuff out. Whether that is because of the new brain exercises I have been doing or not, I think I will keep up with them. A happy brain makes a happy Grandma Judy.
Left- handed portrait of a neighbor
Drawing pictures with my non-dominant hand has made my whole body work harder. My left hand is figuring out how to hold a pencil, my right hand makes a fist, thinking she should be doing something, and my brain works overtime, making sense of the whole situation. It just seems to wake everything up!
Grandpa Nelson, enjoying the sunshine
This week I have gone on more walks. The sudden sunshine after weeks of rain is part of the reason, of course. Blinding sunshine through winter trees is just good for the soul.
Mapping out the day
But there’s more! For the Art Journal, I have made art I really like. Mapping my day as a board game and planning my ‘dream houses’ (yes, there are more than one!) have kept me happily introspective.
One dream house by the sea…
I have also figured out how to re-write my blogs so they can be printed. I sigh big sighs as I hunt up photos from years ago and cuddle up close to the feelings that they conjure.
…and one in Paris!
All of these are good things. Art, writing, figuring things out, and sunshine. I am enjoying them, but also very aware that I am using them as emotional armor against what seems like an approaching storm in our country. In the coming weeks, I am going to need all the joy I can get.
I have written almost 1,000 blogs since July 2017, using the WordPress.com site. I have written about Portland’s history and places to visit, as well as the joys and difficulties of everyday life here. I am now thinking of turning all this writing into small books, which could go out into the world.
I hope to compile blogs on one topic (starting with our historic Lone Fir Cemetery), print them out, and offer them for sale. Auntie Bridgett Spicer does this with her wonderful Art-O-Rama zines, collections of writings and art that she sells online and at the SideStreet Arts gallery.
The difficulty of moving my Word Press writings into any other format, in order to print them out, was my first challenge. I asked Bridgett and read Q and A pages, looking for a way to make it work. Then I found something by a knowledgable fellow who basically said, “Wordpress doesn’t want you to do this. It is made to not allow you to do this.” Hmmm. Well, then, I’ll do it another way.
So today I start doing it another way. I will hunker down and re-type my blogs about Lone Fir, using a split-screen to make sure I don’t drift too far from the originals. I will fetch my photos from Pictures and splice them in. I will tighten up language and get rid of repetition, while trying to keep the language fresh and fun.
I am excited about this new level of exposure for my writing, even though I have no idea where it may end up. As Gandalf said, “You never know what may happen, once you set foot outside your door.”
I have rarely had trouble sleeping. As a teacher for thirty years and a working mom for twenty of those, I was so tired by bedtime that I was asleep before the lamp was cool. My body and brain had been running so fast all day, it was bliss to just shut down and go away for a while.
The kids, circa 2008…..
But lately, there has been trouble in sleepy-nigh’ night paradise. There are lots of perfectly good reasons for this.
We are in the middle of an ‘atmospheric river’ that is currently dumping seven inches of rain on Portland. I am a good sport about rain, but going for a real decent walk just isn’t as much fun. So I’m not getting as much exercise as I probably should.
Auntie Bridgett, being a good sport
Age may have something to do with it. What seem like little aches during the day become (you’ll forgive the expression) real pains in the neck, and can make finding and keeping a comfortable position difficult.
And then there is the news. Last night my brain kept running scenarios, not of plans, not anything I could help or stop, but scenes from a hypothetical disaster movie called “How it Ended for (your city here).” People were smashing things. Roads were blocked. It was like being in the Capital, but there was no place to be evacuated to. It was just us, and them. I won’t bother attaching photos. I’m sure they are etched into your brain, as well.
So this morning I am hobbling by on two hours sleep, determined to do the day as best I can. To not get snippy with my people, to do art and French and exercise and pet the cat. To do the day and be ready for sleep when it is done.
My Art Journal assignment for Monday was to make a picture of the origin or meaning of my name. This became a bigger project of memory, photo hunting, and watercolor. Yehudit is the Hebrew origin of my name, Judy. It means both “praised” and simply “ a woman from Judea.” But Julia Harris, the woman I am named after, had more American beginnings. Born in about 1915, the youngest daughter of an Arkansas pig farmer, she was given the elegant name “Julia” in hopes she would be pretty and marry well.
But once Julia grew up, she had no interest in marrying. She took advantage of World War II to move far from Arkansas, change her name to Judy (Julia was just too fancy) and work for McDonnell-Douglas aeronautics in California as a riveter.
The long journey of my name….
My Momma was working there, too, and they became great friends. Both being from large farm families, both out on their own for the first time, they would go bowling together when their shifts ended. Then Momma met Dad and got married, and quit work to stay home and make babies.
Fast forward a year or so. Momma, now home with my big brother Tim and pregnant with Jim, listened to my dad tell about the new ‘girl’ at work. He described her so clearly that Momma recognized her friend Judy. Judy had left work at the plant shortly before Mom and Dad got married, returning to Arkansas.
When she returned, she told of how she had married a boy back home and that he had been killed in the war. She had come back to work in California with her old friend Ruth, and they took an apartment together. Ruth was a real estate agent (a rarity for women until the war took all the men away) and Judy kept up her engineering training at McDonnell-Douglas.
Judy and Ruth remained close to my parents for the next eight years, and when my Mom finally had her girl (me) she named me Judy after her dear friend. I must have met Judy when I was a baby, but I don’t remember it. She and Ruth moved to Lancaster, California, and then Sedona, Arizona, and we just never got to visit. She and Momma wrote regularly, and I heard about her my whole life.
Fast forward to 1998. After my Dad died, I asked Momma where she would like to go, who she would like to visit. First, we spent some time with family in Oklahoma.
Judy Harris and Momma, 1989
Then we went to Sedona. Judy had lost Ruth just the year before. They had been together since 1946. Their double wide mobile home was decorated in the height of style from the 1960s, with rattan furniture and ceramics with an Asian theme. Judy, at the age of 86, led us on hikes, visits to the Church of the Rock, and a full day of pancakes and antiquing in Sedona. When we were too tired to walk anymore, we talked ourselves blue in the face.
I liked this woman I was named after. She was direct, strong, positive, and funny. She had made her way in life with a partner, not a husband, and she had lived a good life.
Then Momma and I went back to California. Judy and I wrote back and forth, and called each other on holidays. A few years later we got word that Judy had passed away at the age of 97. She had a good, long life. Momma passed a few years later.
This is the best photo I have of Judy and Momma, taken that spring in Sedona. But the most important things about both of them didn’t show on the outside, anyway. Momma’s kindness and loving heart, and Judy’s strength, friendship, and willingness to live a good life in her own way, don’t show up in pictures. But they make fine people.
I have known for months that the art I have been doing during the lockdown is making me happier. I have a fun project to do everyday, connect with friends and family over ZOOM, and I get to learn new things.
Now, it turns out it maybe making me healthier and smarter, too. One of the challenges last week had us drawing something with our non-dominant hand. For me, that’s my left, which is usually pretty useless. It was hard!
First non-dominant hand drawing
Just figuring out how to hold the pencil, how much pressure to apply, then making the lines go where I wanted…. it wasn’t pretty, I tell you. Because my notebook has a large spiral binding, I needed to turn the whole thing upside down so it didn’t get in the way of my left hand.
Second….
But I kept at it and finished a drawing of our French press coffee maker that was not terrible. I did some reading about this sort of exercise. “Using your opposite hand will strengthen neural connections in your brain, and even grow new ones”, says Jeff Rose, who began using his left hand because of an injury. “It’s similar to how physical exercise improves your body’s functioning and grows muscles.”
Third….
Well, I thought, I could use some of that! Maybe in addition to my daily routine of doing a French lesson, eating lots of veggies and getting some exercise, I should draw with my left hand, like a set of Frontal Cortex crunches.
So I did. The drawings got better, and I got braver. I did some left-handed watercolors with the drawing, which made them prettier, if not actually better. Because my view is limited, I started copying photos of our cat and of poppies in our old back yard.
Fourth.
And last night, when you and I were drawing together on ZOOM, I realized that by using my left hand everyday, my right hand has gotten smarter! I was able to draw my stuffed dog Sammy much better than I could before. Maybe the fault isn’t in our hands, but in our brains. Maybe I have been forming new pathways in my old brain!
So, go do some non-dominant hand drawing. You will feel clumsy for a while, but it will pay off.
Dear Liza 