The rich have always liked their little dogs

At least she's not carrying it in her purse.

Painting note:Lucas Cranach the Elder Portrait of Katharina von Mecklenburg, wife of Henry IV of Saxony (1514).

Musical note: The pavane was a slow processional dance common during the 16th century. The author of this piece is unknown.

Thursday's offering

What do you imagine she was thinking about?
And some music:

Read about Guilliame Dufay here.
Jan van Eyk's portrait of his wife, Margarete van Eyck (1439)

Oceanic offering

Today's musical offering is from 2002! It's from Isis's Oceanic:

Image note: "Oceanic" You can purchase this image, created by using bleach and velvet, here.

Today's offering

Another one of my favorite portraits - Giovanni Bellini's Portrait of Doge Leonardo Loredan (1501).

And some music to accompany this:

Josquin: De Profundis Clamavi - Hilliard Ensemble
Find out more about Josquin here.

Passion, Art

Caravaggio paints Bacchus (1593-1594). Reading about Caravaggio makes present day celebrity gossip (with a few exceptions) seem tame. He was a drunk and a murderer. But just look at some of his paintings, here. The passion is extraordinary. "Bacchus" is one of his quietest paintings.

Unlike many, he was famous and extremely influential during his lifetime, and almost entirely forgotten in the centuries after his death.

I re-read the opening verse of Petrarch's Canzioniere, below, a few times after I posted it. Thinking about the poetry, music and art of the past and comparing it, say, to a sitcom of life today, well. . .are our lives that pallid? I don't know who those people on television are, to tell you the truth, so I can't answer this question well. At random, I chose CBS's Gary Unmarried from their line-up as a comparison. Do you think this Gary character would write 366 sonnet verses to his girlfriend or wear a wreath of flowers around his head (without drinking a case of beer first)?

I certainly wouldn't want to live in the 15th century. I wouldn't have lived to the age of 12, due to my health, and as a woman, my life would have been more hellacious than the average man's. So, no, I'm not romanticizing the past. I'm just wondering why most of the arts have been so devoid of passion.

Wait just a minute. There's plenty of passion in music. Not in the "high arts", no, but I could go on for an hour listing the musicians who have poured out their souls. I do forget, as I go for long periods without listening to anything newer than the 17th century. . .and yesterday I was listening to a sample of latest from Trent Reznor and thinking he was maybe worth listening to again.

Awe

Roger van der Weyden's "Portrait of a Lady" (c.1455) has always been one of my favorite portraits.

I realize that not everyone appreciates painting of this sort. Though, I have to admit, I find it difficult to understand. Just the sheer workmanship is awe inspiring. But that's me.

I wish I could hop over to London right now, for there's an exhibition at the National Gallery of Art entitled Renaissance Faces.

In 1994, I purchased the book, "Giotto to Durer: Early Renaissance Painting in the National Gallery", a book that is now pretty dog-eared. It is one of the few art history books that has in-depth analysis of technique. The National Gallery in London was restoring a significant portion of their collection, which is reflected in this book. They used high-tech methods to unravel the mysteries of what mediums and methods these artists used.

In 2000, I went to London with another tattoo artist to work at a tattoo convention. We had a few days free to explore the city. I realized that the hotel we were at was only a few blocks from the National Gallery and I was excited to visit. I asked her if she'd like to come along. She had no interest. I found it astounding. Wasn't she an artist? I presume she found it equally astounding, judging from her reaction ("how boring!"), that I found anything of interest in such old art. She went to the Imax theater. I went to the National Gallery. I found myself sitting next to a woman from Japan, who was having the same response as I was - awe that brought tears to our eyes, and gratitude for the opportunity to see such glorious art in person.

As they say, to each his own.

Love in the 14th century

I found this portrait at this wonderful website. It is always a surprise to me when I discover a portrait that I haven't encountered before, as this is the genre that I have always found the most compelling. When I was young, I spent many hours at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, looking at portraits, wondering just who these people were. I've also spent many an hour copying old portraits, trying to get into the mindset of the old masters, a tried and true learning technique that is probably scoffed at in art schools today.

In this painting, Agnolo Bronzino's "Laura Battiferri" (1555-60), Laura, herself a poet, holds open a page of Petrarch's Sonnets. From 1342-1347, Petrarch wrote 366 verses of the Canzioniere, dedicated to yet another Laura, Laura DeNoyes.

You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,

I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials.

Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;

and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world's delight is a brief dream.

You can read and listen to all 366 sonnets here. I suspect they are infinitely more beautiful in Italian.

Luca Marenzio: Cruda amarilli (madrigal)

Luca Marenzio set poem #322 from the Canzioniere to music. To listen, go here.

The chip on my shoulder is covered with a wool scarf

Yes, I do have a chip on my shoulder. It started to form when I was a kid, when I'd go with my father to the homes of clients who had bought paintings. I don't know why he had a policy that he'd hang the paintings for these people, especially since it made him so angry every single time, but he did. Some people would make us come in the back door (the one for servants, if you don't know). Other people would make him stay for hours, unable to make up their minds where the painting would go. Some would argue over whether the painting was indeed straight (and why he didn't bring a level is beyond me). But the single most annoying thing was the people who wanted to return the painting when they discovered it didn't match their sofa.

The chip also widened as I heard about and saw many a fine artist not sell at all, while the worst crap imaginable would be snapped up.

Just now I saw something online that made me want to throw the laptop across the room, but I need my laptop and I'd only be hurting myself. That's the line policemen who talk people down say, isn't it?

What was this horror? A gallery of "scarves". Now, I love plain fabric, so I found the fabric to be quite nice. All the so-called scarves were dyed in shades of gray or light brown. That's great. No problem. But, here's the thing. They were just pieces of cloth. They didn't even have hems. Okay, I get that, too. The unraveling will add a nice touch. It's that post-apocalyptic look, which made watching the Matrix a visual treat (latex and ripped clothes. . .mmmm). But, sorry, I got very angry. A yard of fabric, plainly dyed, does make a scarf, but the idea of selling it, well, it makes my blood boil. It seems like "the emperor has no clothes" indeed.

And I keep thinking, yes, the cloth is beautiful and looks amazing hanging against the white wall of the boutique gallery. But I also can't help thinking of all the craftspeople who can't make a living, who put so much into their work, and then this person just dips some yardage in a pot and calls it a day. I would wear a scarf like this, no problem. I'd make it. And anyone, absolutely everyone, could make this scarf. So, I suppose I wouldn't be all up-in-arms if this "artist" (okay, that irks me too) had given people instructions on how to make one.

This reminds me that I once made the most raggedly look scarf one can imagine and a woman stopped me on the street, asking me if I made it or where I'd gotten it. She offered to buy it off me. I couldn't think of what to ask for it. We were standing in front of a gallery where there was an old lithograph that I liked. I said, "I'd like that for it." So, she bought the lithograph and I gave her my raggedy scarf. The print was almost fifty bucks. I felt like I'd ripped her off, but later that week someone in my knitting group said raggedy scarves were selling in Houston for one hundred and fifty bucks.

Ah, money and art. I have some serious issues with this topic.

Image note: I am not a total jerk, so I'm not posting a picture of said scarves nor providing a link. Instead, here's a labor of love that is quite something, brought to you by the International Fiber Collaborative. The Gas Station Project (hat tip to Mary Jane, knitter extraordinaire).

Embracing mediocrity, again

I have written extensively on this subject. Just read any post about NaNoWriMo (see tags - I'm too lazy to supply you with a link right here).

I found a website that I can realy get behind and now have a link to it on the sidebar. It's allmediocre.com. See, I'm so lazy right now that I'm going to force you to amble over to the sidebar if you want to see the site. Big hint: the button is green (and I wish it was a different color). Now, the folks at allmediocre didn't even make that a clickable icon, but I did. Is that because they're mediocre? You'd have to ask them. I'm surprised I remembered how to turn a graphic into a link, 'cause I thought everything I knew about html was lost, along with any knowledge I've had of any other languages I've studied.

The sidebar has gained a mediocre link and lost the Amazon begging-for-donations link. Amazon has ended that program, which is just as well. I received exactly $2.61 in donations. I don't blame anyone. What with the zillions of blogs out there, why would you donate to mine? Don't blame me for trying, though. And I thank whoever that one person was for their donation.

It seems fitting that the begging bowl is gone and the admission to mediocrity is up. Sure, like every other blogger, I want to be special, but it's like I used to say about people getting tattoos, "I want to be special, just like everyone else." Well, I do think we're all special, actually.

It's just that I enjoy blogging so much that I really want to justify it with some income. I can justify it by saying (and this would be true) that it's enriched my life. I adore the people I've met through this blog. Truly. I don't know why, but the folks who've left comments here all seem to be people I truly like (yes, I said adore, didn't I?)

That in itself should be enough, and it is, for the most part. Of course, since I'm unemployed, I need some income. But, looking for it in this arena is a pipe dream that an awful lot of other folks have. I might as well just play the lottery every day.

I'm not going to become the next "Things That White People Like" blog turned into best seller. No way. I have no gimmick and no hook. That's a problem. I can't even figure out what to tag my posts. What kind of tag is "something about us", anyway?

I like that tag, but it means nothing in the blogosphere. I just can't help being who I am. I really don't think I'm all that mediocre, but I sure don't fit into a neat little box that can be sold easily. And I did get a 7.3 on blogged.com (those jerks!) That's mediocrity!

This post is fairly pointless, isn't it? I have some things I'd like to write about, but I'm tired at the moment. I just wanted to bring your attention to the sidebar changes. And of course, Julie has a hard time getting to her point, every time.

Should we worry that I just spoke of myself in the third person? I'm not turning into George Bush, don't worry. I was just trying it out. I don't like it and don't plan on doing it again. Promise.

Painting note: Julian Schnabel, Untitled (Los Patos del Buen Retiro), 1991, oil, gesso on velvet, 457 x 457 cm
What does Julian Schnabel have to do with this post? Let's see: First, he's got one of the biggest egos of any human being I've ever heard speak. Noone can say a negative thing about Schnabel (see this past week's 60 Minutes). I admire his films quite a bit. He's an excellent director. His paintings? My opinion is so colored by that ego of his, that I can't say I have an honest assessment. The prices his work command is another issue (3 million dollars for an eh painting?) Whatever he does is golden. I doubt he's ever thought anything he's done in his life is mediocre. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's an insecure little boy inside that body somewhere. I certainly have to examine why he irks me so much, that's for sure.

I suppose it's pretty obvious. Last night, I was scratching my lottery tickets while thinking "I hope I win enough to buy a new mattress" over and over again. A new mattress?! Wow, I have big dreams, don't I? But I need a new mattress quite badly and I can't afford it. Meanwhile, Schnabel can sell a scribble on a napkin for the price of the mattress I can't afford. Not to mention all the starving children that need to be fed (big leap of thought here, I know). . .

Is embracing mediocrity a good idea? Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that it seems to free me up to be more creative. But then, I have to believe in what I've done and not call it mediocre, right? I have to practice all this. It's new stuff.

Addendum: I just realized I don't even know if allmediocre has even accepted me for their "mediocre blogroll." Geez, what if they don't? I will surely be embarrassed!

Warning: Art, Sex, Violence (and jumbled thoughts)

I had just spent a good part of an hour poking around Netflix to find some movies to put in my queue. Vague thoughts about the sheer volume of violent films I've watched over the years wafted in and out of my mind. When I finished, I checked in at Bittergrace Notes, where I read Maria Browning's latest entry, on the play "Black Watch".

A word of caution (or an excuse, perhaps): My thoughts are muddled tonight. I am wary of writing, yet the urge is there, and noone is paying me to do a good job, so I shall proceed. . .

Some years ago, I took the 6:00am bus from Bangor, Maine to New York City. This particular bus line shows movies and serves snacks. The movies are usually comedies or Christmas films if it's the season. It's family fare. I don't recall many of the names of films I've seen on this trip, but suffice it to say, there's usually something with Adam Sandler in it. You get the idea.

On this snowy morning, I boarded the bus and immediately fell asleep. Upon awakening, I looked up at the movie screen and saw a rape taking place. It was 9:00am and we were watching "Rob Roy". Here is some of what Amazon's "essential film" review and synopsis says of this film: ". . .the intelligently scripted story takes place in Scotland in 1713. . .a tale of courage and valor destined to become an enduring movie classic." There is nothing to warn us, here (or on any other movie site), of the rape that we will witness.

The protracted rape scene was as beautiful, in my memory, as the rest of the film. How many beautifully choreographed rapes have I seen on television and in films? Too many to recount. I'm not going to mince words: most of us enjoy watching. Not because we like rape and murder, but because this is entertainment. The bad guys are killed, caught or punished, and so, we can feel okay about whatever enjoyment we derived from watching.

One movie stands out as an exception: Boys Don't Cry. The rape scene in this film is gut wrenching and painful to watch, as it should be. When I saw it in the theater, I could see people squirming in their seats. I have met more than one person who said that they did not want to subject themselves to this film or that they fast forwarded that scene when they watched it on DVD. If you haven't seen it, do so. Force yourself to look. Feel the pain and fear. See rape as it is - violence. We should be repulsed.

At the other extreme is the 1989 film version of Hubert Selby Jr's book"Last Exit to Brooklyn", where, if you read this New York Times review (along with every other review I just scanned) you'd be surprised to discover a slow-moving gang bang of the beautiful Jennifer Jason Leigh by a seemingly endless line of men in a vacant lot. As shocked as any viewer may be, I have heard from more than one person, and I will admit myself, to all the flak I may get, that there was something beautifully seductive about this scene of true horror.

Are we meant to feel guilt? I don't think so. When Pasolini's "Salo" (loosely based on DeSade's "120 Days of Sodom") was released, I remember, standing in the theater afterwards with some of my fellow (very young) art students. I felt queasy from watching this depiction of some of the most unthinkable acts of sadism. People were joking around, talking about how much they enjoyed the film, engaging in deconstructing it, completely unaware of what it's meaning might be, of Italian fascism, of Pasolini himself, of anything. It seemed cool to be able to watch this movie without flinching, as if the act of enjoying it was somehow a subversive act. What meaning does this have? That we are so numb to pain? Most of us were punks, and sado-masochistic themes were popular, but there is a chasm of difference between consensual sex play and enjoying rape, murder and torture, even if it is on film. There is pornography and then there is the pornographic.

We watch and read the news, see people beheaded, women shot in stadiums, watch endless shows about forensics. When we read or hear of Darfur, do we know that we are receiving information about reality? I think the answer to that is, perhaps, no.

We applaud films like Hotel Rwanda and Schindler's List, but when there was a Seinfeld episode about Jerry and his girlfriend making out while watching the latter, that was a brilliant piece of observation. Jerry's parents were shocked. But they shouldn't have been. It was just a movie. One of the film's subplots was the abusive sexual relationship of two characters (excuse me if I don't remember their names). It was something we should not have been able to watch, and instead it came off as something akin to an erotic S&M take on the relationship of Nazis and Jews.

Yes, I'm all over the map. I haven't seen "Black Watch". I probably won't. But when I think of all these beautiful men, as they undoubtedly all are, acting and dancing and singing, in spite of our right minds thinking of the horrors of war, we are again turning it into beautiful art.

I think of the boys (yes, boys) I've known up here in Maine who went to Iraq. They left this country with proud families and proud and strong hearts. They came back damaged beyond repair. They are not beautiful. Some of them cannot speak. Some of them do not want to speak. Their eyes are glazed. Their bodies are damaged. Their youth has been taken away. They have done and seen things that noone should have done or seen, and whether you think it was for nothing or for a good cause, it makes no difference. These boys I've known will not be dancing or attending plays. Many of them are just gone. If I were to write a play about them, I'd cast boys of all sizes and shapes, scrawny, brawny, short, tall, limbs missing, acne-scarred, bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and set them on a sofa. There'd be little dialogue. Perhaps a television set would be on. Maybe CSI Miami would be on, and we'd see yet another beautiful woman who has been raped, tortured and murdered. The men who were once boys would not react, for hardly any of us do, and these fellows, a good many of them, are further numbed by prescription drugs, heroin and booze. This would not be a pleasurable play to watch. The conversation: "Pass me a brew, would ya?" "Get it yourself, you lazy douche." Someone might get it together to get up and go to the refrigerator or go take a leak. Maybe they'd watch a football game. It would be a pretty boring play. And it would, hopefully, be depressing. People might leave the theater. After all, we watch plays where dialogue is elevated, turned into art. Everyone is beautiful, or if they are not, they are charicatures of ugliness, beautiful people made into monsters. Reality is banal.

This ends with a whimper and not a bang. What can I say? I warned you that my thoughts were murky tonight. I feel strongly about these things. I'm not a journalist, nor an intellectual. I am unsure how to collect my thoughts. But maybe that's okay. I'm neither a film critic or an expert. I'm just a somewhat regular person who thinks a bit too much, and I have no conclusions to offer you.

So, that's it for tonight. I hope, at least, you'll think about these things. Maybe you'll have a conclusion or thought that I don't. In fact, I'm sure you will.

Painting Note: Artemisia Gentileschi (July 8, 1593 – 1651/1653) was an Italian Early Baroque painter, today considered one of the most accomplished painters in the generation influenced by Caravaggio. In an era when women painters were not easily accepted by the artistic community, she was the first female painter to become a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence.(Wikipedia)For an interesting analysis of this painting "Susanna and the Elders" (based on a biblical story), go here.

Addendum: All evening I have been racking my brain, trying to find the term for the type of art, such as that of Dennis Cooper, or David Lynch. I looked at these links, and others, to find the term. Is it merely subversive art? I think not. But I can not, for the life of me, conjure up what I know that I know. It is terribly frustrating. Please, someone, help me out here! And then, this discussion will grow. The topic of art, violence and sexuality is one I've been wrestling with for a long time. It's now on the table, but I'm missing a large piece of my vocabulary tonight.

Writing assignment

Yesterday, most oddly, both Dick and I posted about Stephen King and Dickens to the Web. Thinking I should give this weird coincidence some meaning, I picked up a copy of King's "On Writing" at the library.

I heard this was a good book. In my faulty memory, I seem to recall that his writing it started a change in how critics saw King. His writing advice is good. So, tonight, when I woke up at 2:00am and realized I wasn't going back to sleep, I read almost two chapters.

I had thought Baty's idea of throwing out the idea of plotting a novel was probably some sort of ruse used for the insane task of writing a novel in thirty days. The idea fits in with the whole NaNoWriMo gestalt (oy, I wrote gestalt*).

Well, it turns out that Stephen King doesn't put much stock in plotting, either (and you King haters out there are probably saying to yourselves, "Well, that's why his novels suck", though you probably didn't use the word suck, but some more intellectual descriptor).

Of his own plots, King writes (and I'm paraphrasing here), they go something like this:
Writer is stuck in a haunted house.
Two people are trapped in a car.
Woman is accused of murdering someone she did not.

And that's it. Not being able to sleep, I followed his directions for this book's one and only assignment. I wrote whatever popped into my mind after reading the sentence "estranged ex-lover kills girlfriend". I may have forgotten the original sentence, but I'm too lazy, at 4:54am, to go get the book from two feet away.

The upshot of this is that I wrote 1462 pages words before I felt even slightly stuck about where to go next. NaNoWriMo's challenge is to write approximately 1660 words a day in order to write our 50,000 word novel. I have been thinking I'm crazy for thinking that's going to be a piece of cake. It won't be after day three. I'm sure of that. But I do know, after tonight, that it is emminently doable. And I don't need a plot.

The kicker for me is that I need to cross off "love stories" from my list of dislikes. Now I'm only down to two things I don't like in novels! I found it surprisingly fun to write about the beginning of a doomed love story, as I did when I prompted myself with a variation King's writing prompt, "Ex-girlfriend and possible suspect in death of locally known small town jerk tells all."

What was I wrote any good? Beats the heck out of me.

*Here's the Merriam Webster definition of gestalt, which doesn't get at the real meaning of the word in most contexts (in my humble opinion): A structure, configuration, or pattern of physical, biological, or psychological phenomena so integrated as to constitute a functional unit with properties not derivable by summation of its parts.

Painting note: Pablo Picasso "The Lovers" I tried to find a date for this, but couldn't, oddly enough. I'd guess it was pre-1901 because of its style. Correct me if my assumption is wrong.

I don't know that much about Picasso besides the fact that he had a huge ego. My parents both loved Picasso, and there was a print of this painting in my house when I was young. I didn't like it then, and I still do not. If these are lovers, they are surely wooden. And her hand - ugh!- I don't mean to be so picky, but it screams "please paint over me!" I have honestly never understood all the fuss about this artist. If you admire him, I invite you to write a guest piece about it.

Addendum (and yes, I'm still awake at 6:00am, when I should be waking up, not going back to sleep): I just changed my NaNoWriMo profile page. It now reads that I'm writing a book in the Mystery and Suspence category. I didn't really know what category to put it in. There will be a murder. There will be a suspect. Does that categorically make it a mystery?

So, it's come to this: "In a small rural town, a jilted lover kills her ex, twenty five years after the fact. She does not remember doing it, is a completely unreliable narrator, is clearly unfit to stand trial and has a zillion comspiracy theories about the murder, all of which sound plausible if you don't know the suspect well. But that's small town life. We all know something terrible about one another and when push comes to shove, we can make a lot out of that when we don't know what's really going on. Psych reports, police interrogation reports and snippets of letters will be included. Fun for me! And fun for those who like psychologically twisted stories. But there will be no graphic violence. The killer loves the deceased more than her own life, but like many of us, mistakes possession and jealousy for signs of love."

And I thought I didn't want to go near the subject of love. Ha!

Note: Don't hold me to this story. I've already changed my modus operandi once.

Addendum: Um. The novel will be about the same thing as the writing prompt. Cut me some slack - I was running on two hours of sleep. However, I think I'm going to stick with this story. The beauty of it is this: it is not a great idea. It's not even a good idea. In fact, it's a story that's been told over and again since, well, forever (without the psych reports and all). Maybe there's a reason for that. Such a bare bones "plot" is like handing myself an empty coat hanger and a check for a few thousand dollars - I can put whatever I like on it. Restrictions? None. Possibilities for depth and breadth of story - pretty darned big. So, I'm going for it. Make the most out of the least. I like that.

Tea for two

A few days without blogging? Is is possible. I have quite a bit of material I'm mulling over, so stay tuned for some long and rambling entries. Topics will surely include haute couture, celebrity, health care in America, and money.

For today, I have only this: I just received a package of seven perfume samples. I've got L'artisan's Tea for Two on my wrists at the moment, and fear that it will be gone in about an hour. I've heard, "Well, if it's weak, put it on your clothes." Not being one to wash my clothes after one wearing (unless I'm a sweaty mess), I don't want to do this.

Many of the scents I am loving right now, as the weather turns warmer, are so pale and short lived. I really can't see why the companies can't make them stronger, or at least offer "extreme" versions. There's something rather sad about scents being so pallid. Tea for Two is very nice. It's got an initial blast of smokey Lapsang Souchong that's captivating. Sadly, the smokiness disappears very quickly, leaving a scent that I can't put my finger on. It's neither here nor there (is that like saying it's six of one and half dozen of the other?)

A few of the other samples will challenge me to try them. I got a strong sense of nail polish remover from three of them. I can't remember which ones at the moment. It seems too coincidental that I thought that about three out of seven scents, so perhaps my nose is off today. I did wake up with a headache.

Painting note: Mary Cassatt "Five O'Clock Tea" 1880 I'm not a fan of Cassatt's work, as I find much of it too sweet and the subject matter uninteresting. I generally do not like paintings of children, or mothers with babies, unless they are very old (and these, for the most part, are of Mary with the baby Jesus). Nevertheless, I'm putting up this image.

One reason I believe I've always enjoyed paintings of people, whether they are of people going about their business or portraits, is the glimpse into the past. Current portraits interest me not at all. When I look at this painting, for instance, I wonder about the mindset of those women in their fancy dress and what they may have discussing while taking tea. How different was their conversation than those of two women today? I presume it was quite different, but for all we know they were gossiping and swearing like sailors. But somehow, I doubt it.

Spelling bees, words, childish anger, with a bit of art thrown in at the end

This evening, having the terribly exciting life that I do, I am sitting in the dark watching the National Spelling Bee finals. I am having a very good time watching these children spell words that less than one percent of the population (probably) know. The highlight of the evening was the word "numnah" (A pad that goes under the saddle to keep the saddle clean and to cushion the horse's or pony's back), which the young boy thought was numbnut, didn't believe it could be, asked for clarification and got right.

Hey, this is live blogging at its most exciting! There are three kids left. I'm typing during the commercials. Do I feel stupid? No! I haven't been studying etymology for years with a couple of supportive parents at my side (yes, it appears all these children have two parents).

If things had been different for me in pre-adolescence, I could have been one of these kids. Dick doesn't believe that. He says "those kids have IQs of 180!", but I know differently. No, I don't believe I have an IQ that high, but I also do not agree that one needs to in order to spell well. Okay, (in a hushed tone), it's back on!

There's still three kids left. I'm playing along. I got sinicize (even though my spell checker didn't) and I goofed on aptyalism, which has a silent P (oh, that kid is good!)

This is really exciting to me because I am a nerd. I love words. I have always loved words, not necessarily sentences, but just words. I have been told that I could read at the age of two, but no one thought much of it. I still look at words the same way: I love encountering words that I don't know and trying to figure them out. We didn't have the best dictionary in our house when I was a kid. We had a 19th century dictionary, which was beautiful and smelled great, but it was missing many a word.

Cut off mid-thought - it's all over now. Sameer Mishra wins it with two easy words, esclandre and guerdon. Poor Siddharth Chand got prosopopoeia and missed the I, of all the letters to miss, poor boy must have been nervous. I missed the O. He also had the word aptyalism, which has a silent P. He was cheated for he had much harder words, hands down.

For pictures of these kids, click here. They are my heroes for the evening, and perhaps for days to come (though I'm obsessed with Russell Brand at the moment, but more on that in another post).

I suppose I must supply you with the definitions of the winning words:
Esclandre: My spell check doesn't recognize this word, nor does any online dictionary. I found it in a legal dictionary:
[Anglo-French esclandre, from Old French escandle esclandre scandal, from Late Latin scandalum moral stumbling block, disgrace, from Greek skandalon, literally, snare, trap]
1 : defamation of a person by unprivileged oral communication made to a third party
also
: defamatory oral statements

Guerdon: guer·don (gûrdn)
n.
A reward; recompense.
tr.v. guer·doned, guer·don·ing, guer·dons
To reward.

Prosopopeia (yet another word the spell check thinks is wrong)
n.
1. A figure of speech in which an absent or imaginary person is represented as speaking.
2. See personification.

and lastly:

Aptyalism :
n.
: absence of or deficiency in secretion of saliva

Oh, I forgot:

Sinicize:
transitive and intransitive verb
make or become like Chinese: to acquire a Chinese idiom, form, or cultural trait, or give somebody or something a Chinese idiom, form, or cultural trait

Well, now that we've learned words it's doubtful we'll ever use, we can move on. But I'm not entirely moving on, for I'm still stuck on the fact that Dick doesn't believe I could have been one of those kids. Am I insulted? Yes. Is it because he thinks I'm stupid? No. But he doesn't think I'm that smart. Really, this isn't about being smart. It's about being obsessed. Loving words is a hobby like any other. No one thinks a person who has memorized all the baseball stats for the every single world series is a genius, do they? No, they're just an obsessed person, a bit of crackpot who ought to get out more.

Obsession with spelling is the same thing. Sure, some of these kids may know many languages, but learning language, especially while very young, is not difficult. Once you know a few, they start getting easier. As a lover of words, and a kid who refused to use a dictionary until she was totally stumped, I started to see that words had similar beginnings and endings and discovered the concept of derivation. This lead me to try to read French, Italian and Spanish without studying anything. And surprisingly, I discovered I could, though what tense I was reading was always a mystery. I wasn't that self motivated!

When I was in the seventh grade, Latin was offered and I was all excited. Here's where I get whiney about my childhood (as per usual). For some unknown reason, one needed permission from ones parents to study Latin. Why? Did one learn dirty words or something? I have no idea why this was the case and am still pissed off to this day. My mother absolutely refused to sign the permission form for Latin. "Why do you want to learn a dead language", she asked me. I was aghast! My mother loved words, too. She and I used to play "pretend French" where we spoke in words that seemed to be French but had no idea what we were saying. We had a French-English dictionary and sometimes we'd look up the nonsense we'd said and find that some words were indeed real. I learned quite a bit of French this way, and those words are now part of my vocabulary (see? learning foreign language is fun and easy!)

Well, my mother had other plans for me (or rather, for herself, for she didn't make much of a distinction, poor woman). She said, "Don't you want to go to Paris and speak French? Or how about Barcelona, it's a great city! If you knew Spanish, it'd be even better!" No, I wanted to learn Latin and I was disappointed that ancient Greek wasn't on offer, too. They both are in English schools! What's wrong with this country??!!

No, my mother would not sign. So, I picked the most useless language that you could learn without a parental note: Russian. I do not remember cyrillic to this day and only know how to say "put the pencil on the table" and "you go to Siberia". Any other Russian I know comes from reading and watching A Clockwork Orange one too many times.

Urgh. Childhood disappointments. They are many.

Art note: Cy Twombly "Roman Notes IV" 1970 Lithograph 34.1x27.4 Currently being offered at auction in France. Estimated price: $50,000

I like Cy Twombly. The first time I saw one of his paintings, at the Museum of Modern Art, I believe, I fell in love. It was a bewildering experience, for I had no idea why I felt this way. I still do not. I do not understand abstract expressionism intellectually. It's a wonder I went to art school. I have no words to express my feelings about Twombly. I'm just like any imbecile who says, "I may not know a thing about art, but I know what I like." Now, most folks who say this are referring to someone like Norman Rockwell (no offense to those who do, or go ahead and take offense, for I am a snob and don't give a toss, really).

I react to art in exactly the same manner that I react to music (though I actually may know more about music). I have to feel it in my gut. It's visceral. I can not like something because it's "important". I can appreciate something because it has had an impact on what was to come or how people see (or hear) things or because it's making a good statement, but I don't really care for such things. I find most installation and conceptual work a complete sham. If you've something political to say, write it down or run for office.

Let me tell you this: I dropped out of art school because of this kind of thing. I was consistently being told that my art work was facile but lacked meaning. I liked to draw. I loved the beauty of a good line. I enjoyed still life and nudes; I strived to capture as much as possible with the least amount of fuss. Sketching, to me, was a dirty word.

I also liked to draw tools, for they had interesting shapes. I was also told, over and over again, that I was mimicking Jim Dine. The truth is, I didn't know who he was! Finally, I saw his work and was shattered: it was true, though completely innocent. My paintings looked like near-duplicates of his.

So, I was pushed. Do something that expresses your self, I was told.

I had some boxes of plaster impregnated bandage (I have no idea why). So, one day I took them and made a mold of my tenement bathroom. After it dried, I took a box cutter and cut it into manageable sizes and dragged them into my studio at school. "Ah", said my instructor, "Now you're getting somewhere." Utter bullshit, thought I. I was just messing about.

It made me quite angry, really. So, I decided to push it. I called a friend with a camera and asked him to stand in front of the school. I also asked him to clear the sidewalk. This was 23rd Street in New York City so that was no mean feat, but he did it.
Then, I threw the bunch of plaster bathroom crap out of the window of School of Visual Art's 7th floor studio.

My instructor was in heaven. I then ran down the stairs with two buckets of paint. I poured red paint on the mess. Cllck. Click. Cameras taking pictures. Artist at work! I poured black paint on the mess. More pictures. A crowd!

Then I threw the lot in the dumpster and went home.

At the end of the semester we had a review of work. I took the contact sheet pictures and cut them up. Then, I pinned all the pictures of the "event" around the huge room. The students gazed upon them, walking in awed silence. I sat there, dressed in my pre-goth finery, probably staring at the floor with a look of utter disdain on my face. I was asked questions, many of them, to which I said "no comment".

I got an A+ from the instructor who thought I had a promising career as a performance or installation artist. Fat chance. I quit school on the spot. I can not tolerate bullshit. This is why I am a complete failure.

Now, spelling words is an honest thing to do. You are either right or you are wrong. End of story.

Blah blah blah blah blah

I am intellectually lazy. I don't try to find the exact right word. If I find that I can't reach a conclusion, I'll stop writing and say "oh, I think I'll end it here". Most days I think it's a-okay, that's me, take it or leave it, so what. I never said I was a Writer (with a capital W no less). No, I never did and I don't. My writing is me talking in my head, talking to you, my imaginary readers, and is just an exercise in self indulgence (which to be very good for my mental health).

Once in a while I dearly want to express an idea but i find it hard, and so, I have many drafts that are left in the dust, abandoned, never to be finished and never to be read. And I wonder if these poor abandoned potential posts might contain the best stuff.

See, I don't want to write the word stuff, but i can't think of anything else, and I can't be bothered to tax my brain enough to find another.

As usual, this is but a preface to what I want to write about. First I make excuses, hem and haw, explain, apologize, ruminate, or any other tactic to obfuscate the fact that I can't get straight to the point, state my position, back it up and then come to a conclusion. I was going to write, "see, I'd never be a good debater" (and I did, in fact, just write that). But no, I am a fairly good debater, but when people start raising their voices, I walk away, or if I am cornered I'll say "Oh, I really don't know much about this anyway. You're right." Blogging is a good remedy for that. If you disagree with me, I don't have to hear the tone of your voice and I can walk away from a topic at any point without some else saying, "Hey wait, I wasn't finished yet!".

Well. Let's get to the subject, now, shall we?

Earlier tonight I was thinking about the connection between creativity and depression or other "mental illnesses". I've been in a very good mood lately, and I find that when I am, I have less of a desire or need to write. I don't even know what to write about. I could write about politics, but I realize that even though I'm nearly obsessed with this particular political season, I have nothing really new to say, and as I've written before, there are hundreds of professional talking heads to write about this topic. I have some perfumes I'd like to write about, but my thoughts on them are not much more than reviews, so why bother? I've been knitting more than usual, but I have nothing to say about my knitting (well, that may not be true, so I'll hold off on that).

What remains is a question that has been asked over and over again: If people could rid themselves of mental anguish, would they be as creative? If no one had a lousy childhood or faced hardships, would the arts die out? Think about it: there's art as protest, art as catharsis, art as redemption, art as revenge. . .(ah, see how I trail off. . .)

How important is art about beauty? The notion, of art expressing beauty, is practically archaic. Can you imagine a Whitney biennial full of "romantic" art that is not tongue-in-cheek? Or rock and roll that is truly about lasting, enduring and possibly universal love (without any shmaltz?) Or poetry and novels where people are not struggling in some way?

I can't.

I wonder sometimes if my inordinate appreciation for the tiny things in life is intense mostly due to its contrast to the times in which I find the world bleak, miserable and unbearable. If I didn't find such joy in the plants, the birds, the way the light comes in the windows at a certain angle just so, the smell of a new miniscule vial of perfume, I would be near suicidal. I must, absolutely must, stop and notice. I can not afford to not slow down and appreciate this stuff (there's that word again). When I do, I fall apart. Completely. The world becomes bleaker and bleaker until all I see is a kind of horror and futility. The days drag on with purposelessness. People seem distant, as if I'm separated from them by a thick dirty window. I only see what's bad (and there's plenty of it) until I find myself hiding under the covers, wishing for obliteration.

My moods are like weather. If I stay alert, take it slow, watch and notice, I may not see the storm coming, or if I do, I may not be able to keep it at bay (for who can control the weather?) but I can sit back and watch it pass, wreak its havoc and then clean up afterwards.

In truth, I love the weather after a good storm. And as with the real weather, the weather of my moods, the days that have gone black, are always followed by an intense parting of the clouds, with bright light illuminating something new, always something new. New ideas are hatched, the dead and fallen wood of the received ideas I carry around with me gets thrown away (though there's always more where that came from) and I arise, feeling radiant, refreshed, cleaner and more alive.

I remember when Kramer's "Listening to Prozac" came out, back in 1993. In it, Kramer worried about the lessening of creativity when some of his patients took this new SSRI. And some of his patients, indeed, felt like their creative selves had somehow been diminished. Others felt freed, at long last!, from their demons and depressions and could work well and happily in the world. It was a hodgepodge, an interesting hodgepodge.

I do not remember his conclusions (though I remembered that I asked my doctor for Prozac, so they must not have been too forceful against the drug). Perhaps I should re-visit the book, which has been revised and has a new preface entitled "The Landmark Book About Antidepressants and the Remaking of the Self".

The re-making of the Self? That's a pretty scary thought.

I like my self. I don't want to re-make it! I even like the things that are "wrong with me" (well, on good days, at least). Really really normal people are boring.

A friend of mine and I watched some clips of Russell Brand, an English comedian/actor/TV show host/media whore (oh, sorry about that) last night. The guy is a lunatic! I'm jealous of him! He blathers on and on about nothing and everything. If he censors himself, it doesn't show. He'll tell another man he wants to have sex with him (even though he's straight), 'cause he's cute. He says heroin is lovely (though he doesn't do it anymore) and, besides, who describes heroin as lovely? Well, only an English person; "Oh, dahling, I'd like a dime bag of heroin and a crumpet. Pass me a lump of sugar, there's a dear. Thank you oh so very much."

Who wants to watch normal people talking to each other, anyway? How boring would that be? Y'know, I realized Adam Sandler was not a funny guy when I saw Russell Brand interview him. He's just a shade more smart seeming than the character he's played over and over again and epitomized in "Billy Madison". Oh dear. He's so american.

We are so ambivalent in this country. Be weird, but just enough to entertain us. That's a very fine line. Dean blew his chances at the presidential nomination because he screamed way too out-of-control. Leaving his Scientology aside (which is a bit hard to do) what's his name (what IS his name??!!) ruined his career by jumping up and down on an interview sofa. Britney shaved her head. I could go on and on.

The only thing that ever saves people who go over this edge is coming back redeemed. They have to publicly denounce or renounce their behavior (usually chalking it up to some addiction or another), basically confess their sins in public, and then show how normal they really are, or are working towards (one day at a time, in most cases).

But no, in other places in the world, being eccentric or even flat out crazy is perfectly fine as long as you don't hurt yourself or others. In fact, you may be a shaman or, at the very least, someone others would like to have lunch with.

Okay: here is where I stop arbitrarily. Do you know how long I could go on like this? This isn't one of my finer writing moments, but I'm going to leave it, just the way it is, overlong, absurdly rambling and without an obvious thesis and conclusion. Make of it what you will(and if you've reached the end here, I congratulate you on your stamina).

More purple

In a recent post I reported that I've had a lifelong hatred of the color purple. Today, as I was gazing out the window onto my garden, I realized I was dead wrong. Cascades of beautiful purple flowers are blooming profusely around my deck and down the side of the stones that separate my perennials from the grass. This same flower, Dead Nettle (lamium maculatum) grows crazy wild around the sloppy compost piles at the edge of the woods, beyond any areas where I try to tame nature. It's a gorgeous plant that blooms both in the early spring and in the fall. But be careful if you use it. Saying it's invasive would be an understatement. Thankfully, it's shallow rooted and easy to remove (and transplant).

I adore purple flowers. In fact, I love purple flowers so much that I have to force myself, when considering new plants, to keep from buying more purple ones. Right now, lilacs are starting to bloom all over Maine (though I haven't seen any as short and manicured as in this photograph.)


I have dreamt of lavender fields after seeing photographs such as this (Grasse, France):


I can not even begin to imagine what it smells like to stand in this field.

Clematis is another stunner which comes in many shades of purple (though I've had no luck at all growing it):


How could I even think I hated purple?

Somehow, taking purple out of the garden ruined the color for me, to the point that I didn't even think of the lilacs, lavenders, salvias, catmint, hardy geraniums, (the list goes on and on) as purple.

Consider this story: My mother owned a clothing store. It was knd of "hippie-ish" or "artsy", depending on how you saw it. In 1984, after her death, I took over the store. I considered, seriously, the discontinuation of selling any purple clothes. But the women who worked there before I came along stopped me. In fact, they cautioned me that there were customers who came in specifically for purple clothes. One of them we called "the purple lady".

This woman was a schoolteacher. Everything she wore was purple. Everything. Always. She must have worked hard to find all this purple stuff. Besides her sweaters, skirts, pants, blouses and dresses, she wore purple shoes and stockings (and of course, scarves, hats and any other accessories that don't immediately come to mind). She wore purple eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick and nail color. She carried a purple bag which held a purple checkbook with, you guessed it, purple checks. And she signed those checks with a purple pen. She had a purple car (of what make and model I have no idea). And so, whenever anything whatsoever arrived with the UPS truck that was purple, we would give her a call.

One time she came in with her teenage daughter. They shopped and the daughter whined, "Oh no, Mom, not that! It's purple!" I felt for her, being the daughter of the Purple Lady. I tried not to think of what the interior of her home looked like. What a way to grow up (though of course, there are worse upbringings than being subjected to a single color palette).

She was a kook who was defined by a color. And everything in me, at the age of twenty six, wanted to put an end to this nonsense by stopping the supply of purple clothes. It was tempting, but I did not do it.

The truth is, I was once rather afraid of any color at all. Once I gave up using crayons, I stuck with pencil and pen and left colors behind. When I got to art school, I did not know how to paint. It had never interested me for it involved color (though a more imaginative me might have endeavored to use a black and white palette). I had such trouble in my first year of painting simply because I was overwhelmed by it. There were too many! The tubes of paint were endless - how could I pick even that, never mind paint with them?!

I wound up in a remedial painting class (not their description, but it was apt). We used a limited palette: Black, white and the three primary colors. Somehow mixing my own made me less nervous.

In the garden, nowadays, I have to treat purple like I once treated black. Use less of it. See, I'm actually a purple freak! Last year I planted the first yellow flowers ever. I started, tentatively, with some white ones (wow, how terribly daring of me!) I've thrown in some pinks, dusky reds and magentas. I'm near to a full spectrum of color. But the predominant one is purple. Ha!

Photo note:My desktop is filled with photographs of purple flowers and I could post hundreds. For more, visit Wayside Gardens or any number of gardening sites.

And so, a new brand is born (with perfume)

And with this, a new brand is born: EIIIProduct
(Everything is interesting imaginary Product)

It's a miracle

"It's a miracle!" That's what my father always says when something small, but wonderful happens. He throws his hands up in the air and says it in this certain type of old New York accent that you hear nowhere else, except amongst speakers of Yiddish. He didn't speak like that when I was young. It's sort of like the joke about elderly Jewish New Yorkers; that they have to migrate to Florida when they turn 65. My father didn't do that, but he developed the accent.

I've always wondered about these types of accents. Why do so many gay men have the same way of speaking, even if they're from entirely different places? I've got an accent that is hard for many people to discern. Only once in my life did anyone peg me - "below 14th street New York ex-druggie" is what they said. Talk about being outed.

And I just outed myself. I vowed last week I was going to be brutally honest, and so I am continuing to do so. There are some reasons why this might not be the best idea in the world (like savvy potential employees who google my name) but they are going to find stuff I didn't put up myself. And at this point in my life, I am sick of hiding who I am, who I've been, and how I feel.

This is not what I meant to post. When I hit "create" I meant only to write about starting to draw again.

Before I became a commercial ilustrator back in the 80's I used to draw for fun. I drew for fun probably every day of my life since I could hold a crayon. I mostly drew people for I was a lonely kid. I also drew maps of imaginary towns and summer camps with accompanying lists and descriptions of their residents (more evidence of loneliness, huh?) I also drew shoes and clothes. I was a strange mixture of girly-girl and tomboy. I loved making my own paper dolls and I loved playing with Barbie and friends. I also liked to play rough with the boys. I got into fights all the time. This dichotomy has lasted my entire life. It doesn't bother me, but it seems to confuse others.

As usual, I've gotten off track. When I was in the psychiatric ward last week (more on that another time) I was sitting at a table with a bunch of other "patients" (more correctly: inmates) and they were coloring. I got a piece of blank paper and drew an ethereal woman's face. Everyone was stunned, for it was quite beautiful. I gave it to a fellow who had been very kind to me. But then he asked me if I could draw some cartoon character from Looney Tunes. This is when I realized I was finally free from drawing for others. As a illustrator and a tattoo artist, drawing was always what someone else ordered, like a side of fries. I began to loathe both drawing and certain images (flowers with banners, wolf heads, angels. . .)

When that fellow asked me to draw the cartoon character, I said "No". It was so simple a answer and it gave me pleasure. Not mean pleasure, but the pleasure of being free. I then started to draw a shoe with stiletto heals and a big bow on it. It served absolutely no purpose except the pleasure of drawing it. I was just doodling. This young girl was talking about how mad she was at some doctor and she said she wanted to kick him in the rear end (this is the clean version). . .I started jotting down some of what she was saying around the shoe. She saw it and a big smile lit up her face. I didn't draw that drawing for her, but I gave it to her. Hey: win-win!!

Incredibly, I couldn't find any unlined paper in my house, so I bought a cheap sketch pad today. I came home and drew five drawings of shoes. It was fun! I reiterate: it was FUN!

Celebrity suicide

I didn't pay much attention when Heath Ledger committed suicide. I was aware it was shocking - he seemed successful and happy in public. What darkness lay beneath his Hollywood exterior was something that didn't interest me. Quite frankly, I've always felt that the desire to achieve stardom was inherently pathological, and so, a suicide from that quarter has never surprised me. Adulation from strangers can not fill an existential hole. In fact, from the small brush with notoriety I had when I was young, I believe that adoring fans can make the feeling of alienation even worse. People want to be with you because of your fame, not because they like you. They treat you like you are special but you are no different than you were when you not well known, so you realize the adoration is false. This, I believe, was the pain that hurt Kurt Cobain the most - being loved by those who would have beat him up in High School. It sounds trite in print, but in real life, this dilemma is wrenching.

The suicides that bother me most are those of people who have made great accomplishments. Writers, scientists, fine artists - these people, it seems, should feel satisfied with their accomplishments. From the outside looking in, it seems like their personal voids are being filled. Spaulding Gray, Mark Rothko, VIrginia Woolff, Primo Levi. . .just to name a few. . .these suicides are incomprehensible to me.

Yet, as a person who has suffered from depression throughout my entire life, I understand. Not the particulars, no, of course not. A part of me rails against these people - c'mon guys - you were functional enough to get published or get your work hung in galleries, at the very least! - but then I step back and examine my own depression.

People who have not had depression do not get it. Even I, when I am horrified at Spaulding Gray's death, for example (for his really affected me) sometimes don't get it.

Depression is irrational. It poisons everything. It doesn't care what you do. You can achieve great things or sit in front of a television set all your life. It does not matter. Just being alive is painful.

As sad as this is, I have to remind myself just what depression is. Even if I accomplish nothing in this life, if I make it through to a natural death, I will have made a great statement (though sadly, unnoticed): that you can survive depression. It doesn't have to wrap you up in its arms and smother you. You don't have to die before your time. Even if it's just the pleasure of a bird outside your window, every day holds something wonderful, and that is worth living for.

I wonder sometimes, when people accomplish "big" things, if they forget to notice that which is very small. And for myself, it is the smallest things in life that keep me from the worst act. The blooming of a flower, the smell of ozone during a summer rain, a good meal, the sun rising and setting - this is the stuff of life that keeps me going.

Art Note: I was wavering between putting up a photograph of a particularly beautiful flower and a depressing drawing by Egon Schiele. Schiele (1890-1918)won. In spite of his "paranoia obsession" and other mental health quirks (not to mention his decidedly gloomy art) he did not commit suicide.

Mark Rothko

Before finding the Man Ray poster in the post below, I had decided to use a Rothko. There is a similarity, not of intent, but of style. I know from my recent reading of what Rothko had to say about art making, that he would find the comparison anathema to him, but there it is.

Rothko's work feels rather unimportant when small and reproduced. Standing in front of one of his canvasses, in person, is a completely different experience. Of course, this is true of all painting, but with his, the impact of the beauty of color does just not translate to the page or the computer screen.

I have felt incredibly moved by Rothko's work. His painting feels like much more than simply abstraction and he himself eschewed the very notion that he was an abstract painter. Standing before his work, I can understand his feelings about being pigeonholed as an abstract expressionist, for viewing his work is more of an envelopment than a viewing. It is to be experienced and in that way there is a lack of passivity in seeing (unless one is immune to such things). His work has inspired the same awe that I've felt upon seeing a beautiful sun rise, the setting sun upon layers of clouds. . .many beautiful moments witnessing the majesty of nature, especially those that are fleeting and one of a kind. That beautiful sunset one sees on a particular evening is one that will never be seen again. It is as if Rothko has captured that moment to cherish forever. It is much more than a photograph, which, for me, diminishes the experience. I may feel that way because I have found the camera an intrusion into pure experience, but again, it may also be the miniaturization of such grandiosity that also diminishes the emotional impact of witnessing the visual imprint of nature on ones' retina and into our emotional human brain.

After writing the above words, I found this quote from Rothko, which seemed quite apropos:

"I realize that historically the function of painting large pictures is painting something very grandiose and pompous. The reason I paint them, however . . . is precisely because I want to be very intimate and human. To paint a small picture is to place yourself outside your experience, to look upon an experience as a stereopticon view or with a reducing glass. However you paint the larger picture, you are in it. It isn’t something you command! ”

Rothko is one of those artists that, sadly, many non-artists dismiss out of hand with the "anyone could do that" comment. No, anyone could not do that. I admit that once I had felt the same way. My parents were artists and they were both quite facile. We visited museums in New York City almost every Sunday (instead of church, I suppose). However, my father was quite vocal in his complete rejection of any work that was post-impressionist. He did not understand non-representational work. He was, in a sense, a 19th century man in many ways. I was, of course, impressionable to his opinions, of which he didn't hesitate to share quite vocally, even with strangers in galleries. He was horrified by "the demise of painting", and would talk quite loudly when confronted with, say, a Rauschenberg. To him, work of this kind was an abomination, a perversion of art and of beauty. I mention Rauschenberg in particular, because even as a young child, I liked his work quite a bit, and would keep my mouth shut about this, for I feared the ridicule of my father. At least I knew that I must be "okay" in my liking it, for it was in a gallery or a museum, and as a child, this meant that it had some stamp of approval. I hadn't learned yet that this wasn't a given (and I'm grateful for that, for it may have kept me sane).

Of course, I digress. Art is a huge part of my upbringing and carries with it an immense amount of baggage.

For a beautiful overview and presentation of Rothko's work, please take a look at the National Gallery of Art's site. Wikipedia has an entry, of course, which gives more information about the artist's life.

More nausea

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE PRONE TO BEING ILL

Earlier this evening, I was trying to put my fragrance samples into some semblance of order. I have been wearing Passage D'enfer almost every day and figured there had to be something else that would satisfy my craving for woods or incense. I noticed I had a vial of Narciso Rodriguez for Her. I didn't even know I had this, had never heard of it, and opened up the vial for a quick whiff before returning to my clean-up operation.

I hated it at first sniff. It smelled of everything I hate about perfume with a capital P. It's not a particular note, but an impression. It's Perfume! It's the sound of a woman in a stylish power suit wearing pointy sling back heels that clickety clack when she walks. I can see her her approach in the dim hallway of a court. She's got her briefs in a folio kept close to her breast in one hand and the other hand displays her perfectly not too long French nails. She wears this scent, along with stockings and never, ever, pantyhose. It's the Perfume that precedes this same woman when she enters a room and lingers when she leaves like a houseguest who has overstayed their welcome. It screams "smell me whether you like it or not". It's the kind of scent that makes cities like Halifax outlaw wearing fragrance in public space. It's the smell of a new luxury car that's ugly but impresses the neighbors.

For me, it has no fragrance. I can not pick out anything from it. I'd have to ask an expert nose. All I can do is recoil.

I got some of this poisonous horror on one of my fingers. I may have gotten the barest minimum of molecules to even produce the smell. I didn't spill it. I only put the cap back on the vial. There's the tiniest bit of fragrance that gets on ones' fingers when doing this.

I had to stop writing. I thought I was going to be ill. I walked quickly to my bathroom and braced myself, but nothing happened. I still feel sick. Let's move back in time to retrace the origins of this awful feeling:

I had some of the loathsome For Her on my finger. Not even a drop of it. If I knew chemistry, I might be able to tell you just how many molecules there were on my digit. I'm sure Luca Turin could tell you. I assumed that because of how small the quantity was that it would dissipate quickly. Oh, how wrong I was!

I was in the midst of writing this post when I wrote: It was enough. I am writing this while trying not to think of being ill. I washed it off long ago with

In the middle of that sentence I walked briskly to the bathroom. I told you that already, didn't I?

I am stunned by how powerful a reaction I had to this smell. Is it a fragrance, an odor or a scent? Something that makes one so ill would reasonably be called a stench.

I was intrigued by how much I hated this odor, stench, swill, what have you and how I couldn't place what about it made me feel ill, so I googled it to read some reviews. They were few and far between, but I found one woman who said it was her "holy grail" of scents. How can this be? As I write this, still feeling the urge to vomit (there, I've said it), I wonder what is it that this other person smells. It is not what I smell. It can't be.

I've done everything to remove the offensive odor. I've used plain hot water, a wash cloth, the very strong scent of a cedar soap, followed by another wash with hot water. Then I applied Booth's Honey Almond body butter, which usually soothes my senses and masks any odors I don't like that linger on my body.. It was all futile.

Just the sense memory alone is making me sick. I'm not even sure I will ever be able to read the name of this vile product again without some nausea.

The interesting thing (to me!) is that, in spite of how terribly nauseated I am feeling right this moment, I am more fascinated by the fact that a scent can have such a strong effect upon anyone. What is it about this sickening potion that offends me so much? And what is in it that my nose is telling my body that it is poison? For that is exactly what is happening. Why else would one have an urge to throw up? My body needs to rid me of this toxin, pure and simple.

Note: It took me hours to find this (rare) poster from a Man Ray exhibit in 1974 on line. I put it here for one simple reason: I find it a cheerful, refreshing image (and a good antidote to nausea). I own this poster, though it is very wavy. When I saw the words "rare" on the web, I got all excited, for I hoped it was worth some real money. Nah. Only 75 bucks.