by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Not with a bang.
It’s official. The docs are signed, the keys returned. The war-that-was-never-ever-declared-a-war-by-Congress is OVER.
I was on my way to work, driving down a steep country road when I heard the news. And that’s all it was, just news. Blah blah blah a story. Followed by other stories that I didn’t pay attention to because I was too busy thinking about the war that wasn’t a war.
The non-war that my son returned to three times over the course of four years. But he was one of the lucky ones. He survived. And any injuries he received were not important enough to tell his mother about.
Unlike the 4,487 American service members who didn’t survive. And the 32,226 who were injured severely enough for their moms to be told. And the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis either killed, injured or displaced. But they don’t count because, well, we don’t want to think about them.
It’s over. Maybe. Sort of.
We’ll see….
The question is, will anybody outside of the military even know? Because we, as a people, have been sheltered from the facts. The tone was set by our former leader (he-who-must-not-be-named) when he told us to show our patriotism and go shopping. Don’t worry our pretty little heads about what was going on over there. And then he told the bad guys to ‘bring it on.’
AARUGH!!!
Okay. Step back now. Breathe deep. Much better….
When I was formulating the idea for this blog I told myself it would be non-political. It’s about art and life and everything in between, right? Painting, not politics. But for a long time this war WAS my life, affecting everything I did. It’s why I stopped painting. Why I moved my elderly mother into my studio, ensuring I wouldn’t have a place to paint if I wanted to. Because if I couldn’t save my son, maybe I could save my mom. It’s why I quit my galleries and just let my career turn to dust. You can read about some of that here, written during deployment #2.
It’s why I was a crazy woman–absolutely bat shit crazy— for four plus years. Because being consumed by fear and rage and anticipatory grief will do that to a person. So will going to funerals of young men who are called heros for being unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of a bullet or a bomb. And writing condolence letters to the unlucky moms. Hundreds of letters, until one day I woke up–not that I ever slept–and said, “I CAN NOT. DO THIS. ANYMORE.”
And so I pulled back and allowed some semblance of normalcy to creep into my life. I never for one minute stopped caring. But I had to start living my life again. My son was home. He was safe. For me, it was time to move on.
And now, this war-that-was-never-a-war is over.
But only for some. Because for those who lived it or died in it or came home missing something, or for those whose loved one is never coming home…this war-that-was-never-a-war won’t be over for a long, long time.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Life, Parents |
The traffic was backed up all the way from the freeway exit ramp. At first I thought there had been an accident. And then, as we slowly crept up the road, I saw the blinkers come on. One after another waiting patiently for the left turn.
We were all going to the same place.
The parking lot was full. And so was the church. I thought it was standing room only until an usher pointed me to the choir loft. It was empty except for a black and red walker.
Just like Mama’s.
I didn’t want to sit there.
And then I noticed an empty seat, one in from the aisle. I asked if it was taken and the woman sitting next to it said no. So I sat down beside her. Looked around. There were two overhead screens with text and graphics. Up front, where the altar would be, was a bank of candles. Hundreds of them. Three hundred and sixty-three to be exact.
The program was a single piece of paper folded in half. Inside were the names. Three hundred and sixty-three. Divided into months. I found Edith Lobb under April. The month Mama was born, and, ninety-five years eleven months one week and six days later, the month she died.
The choir loft began filling up. I caught the eye of the woman sitting next to me. We began to talk. It wasn’t the usual passing the time of day small talk between strangers. This was a slow, hesitant dance of conversation. We were strangers to one another and yet we knew we had a profound experience in common–the death of a loved one within the past year.
As did everyone else in the hall.
Hello. How you doin’? was too trite and meaningless under the circumstances.
When. Who. How long has it been. Do you need a tissue was more like it.
I didn’t want to be there and yet, when the invitation came in the mail I knew I had to go. Because Hospice had been there for us when we most needed it. And this event, a reading of the names of all those under hospice care who died within the last year–this event was a way for me to honor the people of Hospice as much as it was to honor my mother.
I recognized some of the speakers, the readers of the names. The social worker who had come to the house. One of the nurses. The spiritual advisor who had been as concerned about me as he had been about Mama.
The music was exquisite. A haunting flute solo. Later some beautiful vocals accompanied by acoustic guitar.
And finally a benediction by the minister. Statement. Response. I don’t recall his exact words but our response was, “We release you.” Over and over. “We release you.” I thought of balloons. Of doves. Of souls tied down by human grief being released, flying free.
In the end, while we were waiting to receive our candles, my neighbor turned to me. “Does it ever get any easier,” she asked. Her loss was recent and double that of mine, two family members within weeks of one another. Within weeks of this evening. Mourning’s early days when life is raw and everything hurts.
I assured her that despite what others had told her, it does get better. That eventually she’d have more good days than bad. And one day she would wake up and realize she was okay. That life goes on and it was good.
And then I told her how Mama’s death had created a rebirth in me. After years of caregiving, especially the intense care required at the end, I was now free to blossom with my own life. My words struck a chord, I could see it in her eyes as she leaned forward, soaking up what I had to say. For the first time that night I saw her smile, a flicker of hope lighting up her face as she nodded her head. Yes, yes.
YES! When the grief clears life is still there. And it is good.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids |
There are two young women I love with all of my heart. My daughters. One I gave birth to, the other one married my son.
Today I’m going to talk about my daughter-in-law, the BEST DIL in the world, ever. It’s her birthday today. She’s 27.
I don’t know about you but when I was 27 I was on the tail end of my screwup phase. Finally getting it together. Sorta. I had an art degree and a couple years of waitressing and retail sales under my belt. There were a couple of broken hearts along the way as well. I was sharing a rental in a marginal part of town with two elkhounds and a roommate. The leap into the world of commercial art–illustration and graphics, would take place towards the end of that year. Even then it was a long, slow process.
Fast forward to BEST DIL in the world, ever. Her name is Nicole, by the way. Niki. And I’ve known her since she was 16, when she first started hanging around our house with all the other kids. I liked her for her own merits even before she and FirstBorn began dating. And once they did begin dating I fell in love with her too. Because she brought out the best in my son. What mother wouldn’t love that?
So it didn’t really surprise me when they eloped. But holy crap, they were 18 years old. Babies. DIL was still in high school. And FirstBorn was a brand new Marine heading off to what would soon become war.
But, as I said…it didn’t surprise me. Because even back then they were right for each other.
Fast forward again. They’ll be married nine years next month. NINE YEARS. Been a lot of growing up for the both of them. Three combat deployments to Iraq–not easy on any marriage. But while FirstBorn was being a Marine, Niki was working any number of part time jobs and putting herself through school. Not just taking classes, excelling. She made Phi Beta Kappa in her junior year and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in molecular biology.
Not bad for a kid who got married in high school…
Today? Good jobs, both of ’em. A couple of cats. A dog. A mortgage. And best of all…most most MOST important of all… a baby. A beautiful little girl born to rock solid parents.
As the saying goes, ‘I didn’t lose a son, I gained a daughter’. Indeed I did. And I love her like my own. Happy Birthday Niki!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Kids |
When my kids were little they were not allowed to use the ‘B’ word. I’m assuming you’re all grown ups and will not be terribly offended if I say it in print. If you have fair sensibilities consider this a warning–cover your eyes or skip down to the pictures.
The word in question…the gasp! cover your mouth WHAT DID YOU SAY!!!! word…was (and still is) B.O.R.E.D. As in, I’m bored. As in I’m SO bored. As in…well, you get the picture.
I would tell these brilliant little humans there was SO much in this world to do, see, think about. Adventures to make up. Things to build. Really, who had time to be bored? And they would go off and write stories. Or draw pictures. Or pound nails into a couple pieces of wood and call it a shelf.
They didn’t start with the eye rolls and the exasperated sighs until the hormones kicked in. But that’s another story.
And this is where you, dear readers, enter the picture. Let’s say you’re one of my students. Let’s say you’re desperate for inspiration. Your muse is misbehaving, filling your head with all sorts of nonsense, making you feel badly about all things art. You’re uninspired. Stuck. Quite frankly, you’re bored. You come to my class and tell me you can’t paint. And you’ll never ever be an artist because you don’t know what to paint.
And I will tell you that you are a brilliant human being. I will give you a hug. Maybe two. Then I will point to the sign that says No Whining, hand you a camera and send you outside.
With one rule. The big picture is overwhelming. Really. Your creative mind is spinning like a kid with a couple of Cokes under his belt in Toys R Us. Overstimulated. So my answer to that is tune out the distractions, tune out the BIG picture and F.O.C.U.S. Don’t go far. Don’t get distracted by the meadow. Or the horses. Stay on the walkway and focus on an area no larger than a foot square. Look for patterns in the concrete or the rocks.
Like this. See, that was easy now, wasn’t it? Oh, wait…are you saying that’s just a couple of rocks? Well yes, it is. Three, actually. And some moss. And not even a great composition. That’s because you’re looking at the BIG picture.
Look what a little cropping can do. Squint. Nice colors, eh? Compositions isn’t bad either. Imagine this with layers and layers of glazes. Imagine working the surface, scraping and painting and bringing forth all sorts of yummy texture.
Some rotation for a different look. The point is any one of these could stand on it’s on as a painting. They could also be used as background for other images. Put some blue on the upper half and call it a landscape.
Cropping another area of the original photo. Squint. See the arrow? Half an arrow. This could be a total graphic kind of painting. There are any number of possibilities. Hey, I did a post about this not long ago using the hair on my dog’s head. Really, there’s NO excuse.
So next time you’re stuck, take a deep breath and tell yourself what a BRILLIANT human being you are. In fact, do that a couple of times. Say it loudly until you believe it. Jump up and down a few times while you’re at it. Then open your eyes, look around and get painting.
By the way, you’re welcome to use any of these photos if they inspire you. And if they do, send me a picture. I’d love to share them on the blog.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Sisters |
Show hangs Monday. As I write this, that’s day after tomorrow. Although tomorrow is less than two hours away.
Oh. My.
There’s much to do still. Can’t begin to say what sister Margie has on her plate. Well, there’s some canvas stretching involved with the wrong size stretcher bars but…but…but that’s her thing, right? And she’ll figure it out. And if she doesn’t, friend Christina is lending a hand tomorrow. Hey and YAY!!! Christina! She’s a Virgo. And an artist. Which means she’s incredibly capable at doing things right.
Whereas I’m an Aquarian. Which means I drink lots of water, pee constantly and run around like a crazy chicken with ADD.
Mr. Spouse decided this would be a good weekend to go somewhere else. Far, far away. He’s hangin’ with da boyz in the mountains of Georgia, dangerously close to Alabama. Figured being with Sisters Lobb just before hanging a show would be akin to being the sacrificial male at a PMS festival. Safety lay three thousand miles and a whole damn continent away.
Smart move.
So here’s what Studio Grande looked like today. The following photos are taken in the kitchen of the cottage. I work in the two back rooms but this is where the heat is and these suckers need some encouragement when it comes to drying.
So that’s SOME of my work. The big pieces. Cold wax and oil. The encaustics are smaller, a few medium size, the rest 12×12 or smaller. I’ve got around thirty finished pieces. Finished except for wiring and touchup. Probably won’t use them all but it gives me stuff to choose from.
And hey, there’s a couple panels just begging for some wax. Aww geeze, whack me upside the head if I even THINK of starting something new, okay?
Now here’s a look at some of Margie’s work. Just some of it. She’s set up shop in Mama’s old bedroom because there’s not enough room for the two of us in my work area. Sounds like a line from an old western, “Sorry Pard’, ain’t ’nuff room for you ‘n me both in these parts. Now skee-daddle. Shoo.” But there isn’t. Really. So here it is, what you can see of it.
Hard to see what she’s got here but trust me, her work is spectacular. She’s amazing.
I can’t wait to see this all up and hanging. It’s going to be an awesome show!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Process, Sisters |
She be here! Marjorie Ellen, chief tormentor of my youth, flew in from Norway yesterday. Today I drove down the hill and picked her up at the train station. The first thing we did, after the hugs and kisses, was hop back in the car and head to In-N-Out for a couple of burgers. I will NOT tell you how many burgers my skinny sister can pack away at one sitting. But I can tell you I am jealous–absolutely lime-green-with-envy-kind-of-JEALOUS of her metabolism.
After dinner we headed home. Home. The last time she was here was April, when Mama died. But the cottage isn’t Mama’s house anymore, it’s my studio again. A place where art happens. Smells like oil paint and beeswax. It’s messy with art supplies and cat hair and things of Mama’s that don’t know where else to be.
She started unpacking her stuff. It was like Christmas…bubble wrap, newsprint and ART! Gorgeous, glorious sister paintings. Etchings. Oh. My….. Photos tomorrow.
Meanwhile here’s a few photos of my own. Things I worked on today. This is new to me, COLD wax mixed with oil paint. I’m not experienced enough with hot wax yet to get where I wanted to go with the large panels, not with a show hanging on Monday. Actually I’ve got my fingers crossed that these will be dry by then.
Everyone, send some good dry mojo this way, okay? Thanks.
So this is what I did today.
Not this. (arrow pointing up) I did this last week, It’s the underpainting for (arrow pointing down).
This is after playtime with cold wax. It’s not the final photo, I straightened out the horizon but forgot to take the picture.
I’m REALLY liking the cold wax. Probably because it’s more in line with the way I paint. So it’s less of a learning curve for me.
Here’s another one. First, the underpainting, It’s 1’x3′ on plastered cradled board. Lots of fun with the texture here.
Starting the process. Just got to jump in and be bold.
And this is how it looks now.
Now it’s time to visit with Ms. Margie. YAY!
