Hope the Other Shoe Never Drops

Tomorrow is Philly again, that is, if it isn't pouring. In that case, we'll put it off, hopefully not to Sunday though. We're supposed to go to the museum down here then to see a particular show. I've been working here on the computer for a while while I watched a mediocre Linsay Lohan movie. I was dying to watch TV to zone out and I finally found that. I've had malware attacking my computer since I downloaded some program that didn't even come through. It got down to something called adzgalore which could drive a dead man crazy. Really, it wasn't that bad, just ads blasting through whenever I went to a new url. I just x'd them. but since I have a neat adblocker on here, I wanted adzgalore off. I'm hoping I did it just now. I've been running all my spy programs over and over for a couple weeks.
Earlier, I painted for a few hours. I like the new father and son in the forest. Nobody seems to see the figures, but I know they're there. I ran out of this beautiful purple and the replacement I got at Utrecht, (in Philly last week), is more red. They didn't have the purple I wanted. It looks like I need a yellow plastic paint too for the frames. Or a tealy kind of green. I figured I could mix it up. I don't have much of that kind of paint. I just started using it for frames last week. Acrylic! That's the right name.
I paint as though there's a market for my work. Most likely, I'll be storing hundreds more paintings in the garage. No surprise. I have hundreds of watercolor/pastels from the "turn of the century" in there. I hope Cousin B. is willing and able to actually convert the garage. I really love this house. I'm crazy about it. I'm planting more shrubs, moving plants around. Starting more bushes... I'm in love with this place. I feel so lucky to be in a house I adore. I know it's a privledge. It's like, for some people, life clicks. Situations lead to generally good things. I don't want to give myself any kinahorras. I'm pretty superstitious, even though I know it's spurious. Nutty, but in this case...
People are conditioned to believe if one is a professional, a real artist, then one survives by the sale of one's paintings. I don't know where that idea came from. Mostly, that kind of life went out with DaVinci. Rarely can an artist actually eat with painting profits. One would definitely starve. I figure one is a professional if he or she went to art school and paints all the time. I know art school isn't really necessary. It's a luxury. I got it and I'm grateful. I'm glad I exhibited because, even though it was mostly shit and a waste of time, having friends come was like a party, and the fact that I showed in galleries convinces people I'm the real deal. If I started now, I'd probably never bother with galleries. I did sell sometimes in them, probably more than from home, but I still hate the whole process. Well, I'm a mess dealing with that. I guess, at sixty, I give myself the senior citizen escape clause. And the ignore it clause.
Turns out that crappy shit is still on here. Motherfuckers.

Senator Kennedy & Death

Senator Kennedy & Death

Senator Kennedy is dying. He's been a great defender of liberal causes. Of compassion and working people. I'm so sorry. I wished he'd had ten more years. Sad. I'm live the fantasy that nothing will happen to me for another twenty years. I'm shocked when I feel pain in my knees. Flabbergasted when I fell and broke my front teeth. Worried when I drive, because then, I am aware of my and other drivers' failures. When I stand at the top of the steps, I'm careful. All of this stays in the back of my mind. My cousin, who was more like my brother suddenly got sick and died about a year and a half ago. It broke my heart and I guess brought my thoughts of mortality to the surface. I asked him before he died, if he could, would he let me know he was around. I forget how long it took, but wild things happened--one picture flying off the mantelpiece filled with photos, the car filling up with smoke--twice--and more. Years ago, I'd seen the spirit of my neighbor's aunt, so every time I get incredulous, which is actually frequent, I remember Aunt Millie's spirit. I pray Jerry's spirit knocked the picture and the shoes off the shelves; raised my window shade two inches; pushed in my keyboard; and smoked in our car. I hope.

Kepping Up With All Those Blogs

These programs, like facebook, plaxo, my space, plus one other that's dedicated to business...drive me nuts. Actually, each one has good things and people I care about. I just don't have much time and I want to do everything. I've been painting almost all the time. The almost happened because my friend was visiting and our Philly trip was the next day. I think I had to paint at night the next day because Harry needed me to go with him to the doctor, and then we went to the Y, to the treadmills. I take a book and read while I walk or bike. I like that because I never have enough time to read. I go to bed late, sleep late, then aim for the easel. If I can. I love vegging out watching TV at night. And I write this stuff while I watch TV.
I'm not busier than when I worked. Then, even though I worked only three days a week in an office and could draw at my desk, I couldn't paint. And I hated to be there. I did have a studio and I painted, but my output was usually less. There is no comparison. The best thing...well, there are so many best things. It's a different, and better, life, even with arthritis and invisible problems growing in my arteries. Even with bursitis driving me slightly nuts.
I'm almost finished my mandala painting and my father and son in the garden is getting done too. Oh, if anyone reads this, I need other opinions. A friend of mine told me I should charge about $1200 a painting instead of maybe $350. He says people will value the paintings more and buy them. He thinks I'm selling myself short. I think selling them at reasonable prices helps them sell. The people who buy my paintings usually couldn't afford $1200. I think his argument is naive. Opinions? I think I may have at one time, had high prices on my work, but you know, I forget.

My Moon baby.

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Painting Isn't Real Exercise, like maybe swimming

My lose-weight diet has helped me gain three pounds, not what I wanted. This morning, I was disgusted and depressed just after weighing myself, but I'm feeling better now because I kept a journal (on-line) of what I ate and the calorie count. I'm expecting to lose. I hope I'm right.This has been a long haul; I've fought my weight gain for a couple of years, always giving up or forgetting. With my medical reports which I may have read wrong, (hopefully), I'm afraid of the currently mild serious problems becomeing stroke or heart attack worthy. All those bowls of ice cream and candy bars are catching up to me. I haven't lost one ounce not eating them, and I forget why I'm not. The hard candy sits in my drawer, I hope, to go stale and be thrown out.
My knee is still a problem and my other knee threatens to become one. That horrible shot stopped the pain under my kneecap but not on the left side. I stand at the easel and paint--I'm almost finished a new one!--and my feet burn. That may be my weight. I'll know only if I eventually return to a normal weight. I hope for me painting is like meditating because I never remember to meditate. My big activities are reading the paper, painting, and reading books. They're my favorites. I eat while reading and reading is the only thing that makes the treadmill bearable. I do lots of other stuff including gardening, but other than caring for my children, cats, and friends, painting is my most important activity. Life isn't right without painting in the mix.
Lately, I'm using up my sable oil painting brushes. I guess I used to paint at a much slower rate. I'm worried about spending all my very hard earned painting money on a studio gallery. I may have none left for painting supplies. Cadmiums that run $30 a tube. Art supplies were basically robbery before the price of oil shot up. I think I'm being careful cleaning the brushes, but they're deteriorating. Some of my big brushes from art school--back in 1975--are still around. I'm sure a bunch of them are from as far back as 1971. It's a shame I don't paint those huge canvases anymore using the fat brushes.
The painting I'm finishing is what I call a mandala. It's far from a normal mandala. It's one of those tight designs that I do. It's different painting every day; I think the frequency pushes freedom and experimentation. A lot of the time now, I fool around and just see what comes out. It's like coloring as a kid. It's exciting and not one quarter as stressful as painting used to be for me. It's fun with a tiny bit of worry. For me, it's nothing. I don't know why I'm saying this. It's fun. The two other paintings I'm working on are a little figurative. I'm still beginning them. I think the small one is on it's way though. That's the hard part--finding the road. Seeing where it's heading.
My friend William was bothering me yesterday about not being ambitious or feeling pushed to make money as an artist. I just want to paint. I think marketing is a job. William thinks I should put high prices on my paintings and that they'd sell faster and better that way. I have no idea if he's right, except that I haven't sold anything for more than $650, I don't think. I'm just not getting to wealthy patrons. So far, the people who've bought paintings from me are working people who wouldn't have $1200 to spend on a painting. At least, I don't think so. Pricing artwork is difficult anytime. All the time.
That's the Dot Abstract, the last painting I finished. It's about 18 x 24", oil on canvas.

Spelling and Politics

Wasn't she beautiful? I thought so. I also believe that frequently African-Americans have much better color than Caucasians. Well, I like color, especially the bronzey color some people have. Beautiful.
So, with that in mind, I can say Barack Obama, is not, in my mind, a good-looking guy. He needs a lot more hair to deal with those ears and his mouth is the size of Miami. However, I don't vote according to looks or rhetoric. He does rhetoric well. I would vote for one of my cats to get away from W and his party. I do think Obama is okay. He's an academic, and the fact that he's of African heritage will get the US some currency in Africa. His personal diversity is a huge plus for America. Seeing that the Shrub bankrupted our standing, our surplus, our economy, and our army, with Obama, there is nowhere to go but up.
I suspect political aspirations motivated Obama's church membership. That church is the place to be in Chicago. I don't imagine Reverend White's sermons were usually insanely paranoid. Regardless of many white people's belief that black people have made great gains, there is tremendous inequality and reason to be angry. It seems to me that often people who are not the targets do not see the discrimination. It's not really a case of being blind, some education is needed. Dialogue.
I was going on, but my critique of American intelligence can come later.

Work Bullshit vs Real Life

So what is the story with artists? How about fat people? Are we all nuts? In France, they say, "Dumb as an artist." Actually, artists can be anyway, anybody. So can fat people. I just happen to be mildly misfitted, as I suppose, are many. Perhaps I have hidden secrets years of psychotherapy did not "cure". Does psychotherapy cure anything? Or just make people feel okay about their inadequacies? I don't feel okay about mine when I wake up wanting to stay sleeping for another day or two. I have been told that is why alarm clocks exist. Who would want an alarm clock once he or she didn't have to hit the trail that day? I continue to feel as though I beat the system, although I really did retire from my (three day a week, draw at my desk) job, the normal way. I'm still sticking my tongue out laughing, "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!" To whom? Who cares? Who thinks about me or wishes I was there to suffer the avalanche of paper I left? I did. I couldn't help it. I couldn't concentrate. I still can hardly count, or make sensible lists. At work, I felt guilty, and wanted to get out before someone "caught" me. I never didn't do anything that would hurt anybody, but the useless paperwork wasn't getting done. It's hard to feel guilty when I know I was one of many who weren't filling out reams of paper, and the others had no excuse. I had Lupus. What a job! Truly the Great Spirit smiled on me when I transferred into there. From the time I started working in Civil Service--I won't say where--I worked for almost all crazy people. Mostly certifiable, which I should have some idea about, having a degree in Therapeutic REcreation at which I worked in a Psych hospital. It's possible I wouldn't know, but I do. First I worked with clients and when I got onto the business end of the stick, my job got better and better. I couldn't appreciate it, mostly because I hated the people, but it was good. If I'm paranoid, it has nothing to do with anyone else. My working life +could have stayed terrible, but I was given the gift of improvement. Silly, but good. I was always rebellious and anti-authority. I was tortured by my mom for it, but at the same time, I learned my lessons at home. I totally can't stand bullshit either, and business is mostly lying and bullshit. Cheating legally. I can't be serious about most things. Titles. Authority. Rules for rules sake. And breaking the rules because no one is looking. Not me. Some rules are for safety and they're not the ones to break.
My rant is done. My Autumn has fallen asleep on my desk in front of me. Time for more reading of The Glory and the Dream by Manchester. I just got A Voyage Long and Strange which is supposed to be good too. I also have Sarah Vowel. From where I sit with Autumn, at least two of those people are great historians, if anybody is listening.
Good night and God bless you.
Jaynee