by Susan Lobb Porter | Dogs, Life, Porterosa |
I came home from work tonight and realized I really had to water the fruit trees. I planted them a couple months ago, two apples and a pear. I planted them on a terrace Mr. Spouse built last year.
Mr. Spouse does like to build things, especially when it involves stone.
We backfilled the terrace with Gucci dirt. Topped it with pony poop. Got a GREAT crop o’weeds growing between the trees. Thick and lush, waist high. Orchard grass. Rye grass. Wild peas. The biggest clover you’ve ever seen.
Umm…too green to whack just yet. Too tall to mow. But they blend in with the rest of our forest home. And yes, they will go away soon enough. A little slatted table will take their place. A couple of colorful chairs.
Meanwhile, it’s Sophie’s favorite place. She disappears in there. The weeds close over her head. She’s too busy hunting to come when called…all sorts of critters call the terrace home. Lots of rodent holes and I’ve seen a bunny or two.
Which is why I’m not bothering with a garden this year.
I had to water the trees by hand. Haul the water up the hill two buckets at a time. The hose was otherwise engaged and the irrigation isn’t in yet. So it was just me and a couple of buckets in A Little House in the Big Woods moment. Which is fitting since we DO live in the big woods.
Me and the buckets and the bees. Bazillions of big fat bees buzzing around the peas and clover. They weren’t bothered by me and I wasn’t bothered by them. By the way, do you realize how hard it is to photograph those suckers? They move faster than my auto focus.
A piece of clover caught on my shoe and followed me into the house. Told you it was big!
This time last year we woke up to snow. Ah, spring!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Random Acts of Art |
Random Acts of Art has moved to FaceBook and taken on a life of it’s own. Check it out. If you like what you see, join the party. In less than two weeks we’ve grown to over 200 members, people from all over the world are making things, hiding things, stacking things.
And posting the photos.
There are some amazing photos.
Tonight we’ve been wowed by new member James who stacks rocks into seemingly impossible creations all against the backdrop of rivers and mountains. Stacks that sooner or later, probably sooner, will tumble either on their own or helped along by nature or man. James knows his creations are temporary. In his words, “But like the brightest leaves of fall, only there for a moment.”
It all comes back to release. Non-attachment. Seems like that’s been a theme lately. Making things, letting go. No need to stake a claim with name or credit. Random. Acts. Of. ART.
But doesn’t that go against making my living as an artist?
No. Not at all.
In fact, it enhances it.
Because giving something, without any expectation of return, feels GOOD. And when I’m feeling good, the art flows from the feeling good place. The place inside me that’s bold. That takes chances. That isn’t afraid of blowing it. Because if I do…it really doesn’t matter.
Releasing my little arty tokens out into the world makes me a better painter.
Huh? Yeah. It DOES. It. Just. Does.
And that, in turn, gives me the confidence put on my big girl panties, go out into the world and sell my art.
Imagine that!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art |
Last week I promised a painting would be finished. The contrived kitty would morph into something...else… with da muse.
Here it is, the contrived kitty. Gag me…playing safe. Being coy. Aarugh…da muse was not impressed.
So I dove right in. Took a plunge off the deep end, paintbrush in hand. Holy crap! The creative waters were COLD! Cold enough to take my breath away.But when I came up for air…oh man, it felt sooooooo good. So good I said (without consulting with da muse), Hey everyone! Look at me, yoo-hoo…over here. I’m on fire! And I’m gonna have this baby done by Wednesday. Hold. Me. To. It.
Promises are not a good idea when it comes to predicting the creative process. As soon as da muse heard the dreaded P word she curled up with some chocolates and a good book and told me I was on my own.
Which was fine by me. I was on fire, right?
Umm…no. I was so NOT on fire, I even began cleaning the house.
And then a discussion began in my Random Acts of Art Facebook group. The group that morphed from the RAA Wednesdays blog hop. It’s a happening bunch of creatives, let me tell you. In 10 days it’s grown to 192 people from around the world, every one of them hiding little pieces of art in public. Come on over and join the party.
But I digress…the discussion evolved around signing or not signing our names on the art we leave out and about. As I’ve explained to the group, there’s no right or wrong answer to this. It’s a personal decision. For the record, I don’t sign mine. I’m releasing something I made out into the world with NO expectations for the outcome.
Just letting it go.
Today I decided to jump start da muse by applying that same philosophy to the creating process. Just. Let. It. Go.
Ohhhhh…she liked that! Especially when helped along with Springsteen and Paul Simon.
So here’s where Catholic Girls Wear Plaid is now. Still not finished. And most definitely a crappy photo alert. I don’t know why the black is so washed out. But you can get an idea of where it’s heading.
Maybe I’ll get around to finishing this week. But I know better than to make a promise. Till then, my sweetums…may your days be filled with peace, love and chocolate!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Life, Writing |
The first time I met Mary*** (not her real name) I went home and killed someone.
Well, actually I went home and shoveled horseshit…continued shoveling horseshit because that was what I’d been doing before I met her. Before I drove down the lane and introduced myself to the new neighbor who’d yelled at my son a few minutes earlier and forbidden him to cut across the back end of her property.
On a trail through the woods used by the locals for years.
She was… polite when she first came to the door. Frost old biddy all decked out like June Cleaver, down to the pumps and pearls. Squeaky clean. I, on the other hand, was in my manure pickin’ clothes. Dirty shorts. T-shirt with a stain of green horse slobber where you couldn’t miss it. Black rubber boots and a baseball cap.
I was nice when I introduced myself. The smile was, umm…real. I did not offer to shake hands because I’d come straight from the barn and my hands were not presentable by anyone’s standards. Even mine. So I stood there on her front porch, said hello and welcomed her to the neighborhood. Then I mentioned she’d met my son.
It went downhill from there. She blasted me about trespassers (and those who trespass against them). Forgive us our sins, oh Lord, especially if I said something rude. Which I may have. In fact I’m sure I did…but only towards the end.
We did not get off to a good start.
So I went home and continued shoveling shit. And while I was shoveling, I plotted her murder.
It was a most entertaining hour.
I finished with the horses, fired up the computer and started writing. Fictional revenge was oh so sweet. Mary, in my mind, became a far more colorful character than she could ever hope to be in real life. Thank God for literary bitch slapping. Eventually she was joined by a former sister-in-law. And a former boss. And a chairman of the board.
One by one they replaced Mary on my shit-o-meter. Her character took on aspects of them all, eventually coming into her own.
I worked on the story from time to time. People who came into my life and pissed me off found their way into it. People who came into my life and amused me…same. Murder. Parody. A little bit o’romance. My own private world where I could dictate Who. Did. What.
I was a couple hundred pages into it when something bright and shiny caught my attention. Or maybe it was a rabbit. I dunno. I just put it away one day and went on to other things. Lately I’ve been toying with the idea of finishing it.
And then last night around dusk I walked down the lane to fetch the mail. The box is where the lane meets the county road, about a quarter mile away. A young man drove by in a pickup and stopped to chat. A nice kid, Mary’s grandson. And then she drove up. Mary. She’s lived here over a dozen years now and we’ve never really talked other than polite hellos at the mailbox. But last night we all chatted. Most of it was Mary, admiring her embarrassed grandson. Asking me to admire him too. Which I did.
Then she reached through the car window and took my hand. ‘We had a rough start,” she said, ‘but I’ll never forget what you said to me.”
Oh crap, that was a long time ago. What the hell did I say to her??? She couldn’t have heard me call her a bitch under my breath when I got into my car that day, could she?
She looked at her grandson. Looked at me. “You told me I could walk on your property anytime I wanted to. I never forgot that.”
Damn…was that an apology? I. Think. It. Was.
But what the hell, I’m still killing her off. Cause it’s a good story. And I’m going to finish it one of these days.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Random Acts of Art |
I was on fire Sunday night. Ouch! Sizzlin’ hot…FIRE!!! Because da Muse was lit up big time. And I was her puppet…puppet, I tell you...slapping paint every which way, upside down and backwards.
I was so fired up I declared to the world I would have that painting finished by Wednesday. And I asked you guys to hold me accountable.
It seemed like a good idea at the time….
But I didn’t take into account The. Day. Job. And all the other stuff. Like how addicting FUN the new Random Acts of Art FaceBook group is. Whoo-ee! As of this writing we’re up to 72 73 members. 72 73 women from all over the planet who are hiding little bits of arty love in who’da thunk places. Places like fishing nets, elevators, trees…to name just a few. And then photographing the ‘hides’ and sharing them with the group. If you haven’t been there yet check it out. Just click the link above the laughing Buddha on the right.
And ask to join. We’re a friendly bunch and we’d love to have you. Really, we would.
And now, about that painting…the one that’s supposed to be done. TODAY. Well, it’s not. But I’m making new friends online. And tonight, when I went down to the studio after work fully intending to call on da muse, my tired old (not so old) body just could not remain upright. So I said the hell with self-imposed deadlines. And Studio Quat got some quality lap time. Which is also a priority.
The painting will get done. In its own time.
And I’m okay with that.
