I’m clearing out the cottage. The place where Mama spent her final seven years, the place that once was my studio. I’m getting ready to rent it out.
At this point it’s not the big stuff, it’s the things in the drawers and closets. The things on the shelves.
The things I’ve been avoiding dealing with.
Mama’s things. And mine.
Yesterday I filled my car with books. Art books I haven’t looked at in years.
Books I once thought I could never part with but now I realize I’ve grown beyond. Way beyond.
I don’t need them anymore but others will find them useful, will be as excited as I once was to open them up and learn new techniques. So I took them to the thrift store, the one that provides medical care for the animals in the local shelter.
It was a good place for my books to go.
A few days earlier I took another carload of stuff…mugs, kitchen things, linens… this and that’s that were once the everyday of Mama’s life… I took all of that to the Hospice thrift store.
Because we owe so much to Hospice.
Today I walked into the cottage, looked around and thought Holy crap, there’s still a lot of STUFF here!
The stuff I never wanted to deal with. Like shoebox (size 8) stuffed to the rim with notes and cards from when Daddy died.
I looked through them, reading each and every one and wondered if Mama did that from time to time, before her vision failed her. I read them, notes from people I haven’t seen in years and years. Notes from people I never knew.
I set one letter aside, the rest–box and all–went into the recycle bin.
Because it’s time to move on.
I loaded up my car with more things. And then I went up to the new! improved! Studio Grande. Cranked up the music. And painted.
Because I can’t think of a better way to remind myself that life goes on.
Ten years ago my son was an 18 year old Marine. He was among the first troops into Iraq and went back AGAIN and AGAIN for a total of three deployments.
Three. Combat. Deployments.
I spent four years being batshit crazy because, you know, I didn’t raise my son for that.
Ten years after shock and awe, Dubya is shocking us again with his godawful paintings. His teacher says he’s going to go down in history as a great painter. Mawhahahahahah. Give. Me. A. Break. You can check out some of his work here. Be sure to scroll down to see the nudes. Self-portraits. Damn, you know those suckers will sell just because. And that is so not fair because they are truly mediocre. If that isn’t enough to earn him a place in hell than I don’t know what is.
Oh…maybe his war.
His goddamn effing war, the one that left 4,488 American service members dead, 32,021 injured. And well over 100,000 Iraqis but no one has the exact numbers. Many of them innocent civilians. Children. And then the coalition forces…
The war we BORROWED to pay for, the war that set our economy and our national reputation, straight into the toilet.
Ten years later GWB is painting pictures of himself in the shower. In the tub.
At the end of the day he’ll be able to wash the paint from his hands but there some things he’ll never be able to scrub from his soul.
Scrolling down my FaceBook newsfeed last night I came across a photo that showed half a dozen sculptures carved from bananas. A few of which, on closer inspection, were rather, umm…rude. But cleverly so.
As an artist I could appreciate the skill and the idea so I shared the photo on my wall.
And within minutes I was challenged…CHALLENGED…by FaceBook friend Donna to make my own, specifically, a banana pony.
So I did. I like a challenge. And I like bananas. And if you’ve been reading this blog for any time you know how I feel about ponies.
First I carved.
Then I kissed.
Then I ate it. Yummm…
But I still had more than half a banana left. So I made a self-portrait, complete with coconut hair, saggy boobies and banana seed age spots.
And I ate her too. She was extra delicious. Mmmm…mmmm…coconut.
Now that I am an experienced banana carver I can pass along some advice. The banana should not be too ripe. I think a greener one would allow for a bit more control. And a paring knife is not the best tool, it didn’t allow for any detail. Something along the lines of clay tools. And a word of warning: what you cut off doesn’t want to go back on. It just gets all mushy, which is why the pony had weird ears.
So there you have it, my first adventure into edible sculpture since art school. I think cream cheese was involved in that one.
If any of you peeps want to try your hand at this, send me your photos or include the links in the comments below.
