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!

Lust

You see a picture of a bed. The title of the post is lust.

And what do I lust after? That bed. Nothing risque here. Move along, nothing to see!

Not that medical insurance makes any sense, but in the long run, it would save on doctor's visits and medication if people who have arthritis, fibromyalgia and similar ailments were helped with the expense of having an appropriate bed. But, then again, there's the fact that I can get an eye exam, but I have to pay for my glasses. I can understand that insurance companies don't want to pay for Armani frames, but if one can't function without glasses, isn't it a medical neccessity?

I suppose if everyone had a good bed, then the pharmaceutical companies wouldn't be selling as much Ambien and whatever else they promote for insomnia and pain.

I don't think it's a conspiracy, but it could be. Maybe we will discover that Big Pharma and Big Mattress are in bed together (no pun intended, but there it is). I bought a supposedly excellent mattress six years ago and after one year it was kaput.

It's awful, but I look at my bed and think "There's my personal hell." One reason I stay up late is so I can put off getting up in the morning. It doesn't make sense, 'cause no matter what time I go to sleep, I have to get up the next day, but these are the kinds of nonsensical things that people do when they're hurting. I'm not the only one. I've heard it all at fibromyalgia support groups. That's why I only went to two meetings.

When I did a google search for wool mattresses, I found an awful lot about "the ultimate luxury" embedded in between the information on why wool mattresses are healthy and comfortable. It occurs to me that the original target audience (pain sufferers) probably weren't supporting these companies well enough to keep them in business. I discovered that some upscale hotels now have rooms with these beds for clients who need them (and I'd bet that a night in one of these rooms costs nearly as much as a mattress).

Well, we all know that rich people can afford to take better care of their health. Before I moved to Maine, I thought dentures were only for elderly people. Not so! My rude awakening was when I was having a conversation with a girl in her twenties who had sparkling white teeth. I complimented her on them; they were so sparkly and nice. She said, "Oh, you can have them, too. All you need to do is have your teeth pulled!" Gulp. Toothless and twenty-something.

I grew up surrounded by wealthy people. My family moved to one of wealthiest communities in America when I was about seven years old. Before that, we lived in a housing project, where I was a fairly happy kid who loved to jump rope, read, draw and explore. After we moved, everything changed. Suddenly, I was in a world I didn't understand. I was teased for wearing the wrong clothes, or the same dress more than once in a week. I was confused by all sorts of things. Nobody came out into the street to play. The women I thought were mothers turned out to be maids. Silly me thought little Jane Doe had a black mommy who wore a funny outfit every day!

Oh, how I came to hate that town and everything I thought it stood for - greed, lording your good fortune over others, treating people badly simply because they're less fortunate than you. . . .this is one subject that I can't write about at all. Not with any coherency, that is.

And this post started with my desire for a mattress. My lust. Or is it covetousness? Whatever. I just want. Really, I should be grateful for the riches I have. A roof over my head, a car, plenty of food, a computer with the world at my fingertips! And my sofa is pretty darned comfortable to sleep on. See, I have a sofa! Some people live in tin shacks and sleep on dirt floors. Lots of people do.

Maybe I am much more of a typical American than I think I am.

Addendum: This is one of those times I'm thinking "should I delete this post?" Am I a sniveling whiner? In my line of sight is a magazine with a picture of Michelle Obama on the cover. Seeing her makes me think of how hard some people work in order to achieve. And their work and achievements aren't for nothing. They're for their children, their communities and, sometimes, for the world.

In the town in which I grew up, I saw many people who had attained wealth but who had little education. They only had the desire to make money and then, once that was achieved (though that work is never finished, it seems), they liked to show it off. People who couldn't pull themselves up by their bootstraps were losers and deserved their lot.

As much as I intellectually disagree with this idea, it is something I can't quite shake off. I do not believe that we are all born equal. Some of us are born into poverty. Some are born into wealth. Many talents are inherent. So are the things we consider deficits. Some kids can never learn to read or write and others will go on to get advanced degrees in physics, write or paint a masterpiece, or rob a grocery store.

My society tells me that I'm a failure at life. If I can't afford that bed in the picture, I should work harder. I've lead an odd life, I'd say, with ups and downs financially. Mostly downs.

I'm embarassed when confronted (in my own mind) with the success of my relatives and people I've known since I was young. I have more than a few talents. Why haven't I flourished?

I think back to a summer when I had a booth at the Full Circle Fair in Blue Hill, Maine (not your ordinary fair). I wove tartans at the time, beautiful heathered tartans made of Maine wool. Not only were my blankets beautiful and well-woven, but I had tags, brochures and all sorts of materials that were painstakingly designed and, yes, lovely. I can say with no false modesty that I had a great product and a great presentation. I sold nothing. Zero.

Down the aisle from me was another weaver, who was selling plain white blankets with a thin stripe of color in them. They were perfectly fine blankets. They had a brochure that was perfectly fine, too. But, here's the thing: they were taking orders for these $300 lap blankets like you wouldn't believe. I kept going over there and eavesdropping. The wait time they were projecting to buyers kept going up and up as the weekend went by. I got more depressed as I listened.

There was no sense in this. Objectively, I had a nicer product. I was nice and friendly (though I may been glum by Sunday late afternoon). In all likelihood, the other weaver's success started with a piece of luck: a single buyer who brought friends, a group of maybe-buyers who all arrived at once or the fact that it was a particularly hot weekend and the plain white blankets looked refreshing in the sun.

Now, I did become quite depressed afterwards. I was sure that the reason I lost money was that there is something inherently wrong with me. My childhood told me that I was a loser and life has given me plenty of proof that this is indeed true.

I fight against this idea every single day. It's a hard fight, that's for sure.

Phew. Long addendum!

The modern market place

I shopped at Walmart today. You can give me grief about this. Go ahead. I'd like to hear it. I have mixed feelings about shopping there and feel somewhat ignorant about the issues.

Yet.

Why do some people hate Walmart but shop at Target? Is there a difference? Target has hip ads. Walmart doesn't. Target has some hot designers working for them. Walmart might, but they aren't talking.

Supposedly Walmart treats it's employees badly. I've read that. I know there are lawsuits. But, the people I've known who work at Walmart say they like it. In fact, a number of people have told me they are treated far better at Walmart than the local Food Coop.

What about the people who make the goods for Walmart? Yes, they are certainly paid badly, but what would they be doing if they didn't have those jobs? If you can illuminate me, please do.

I am hurting for money. I'd love to shop locally, but when I have a choice of paying nearly thirty bucks for a roasting pan at the hardware store, over a hundred dollars at the housewares store (!), or nine dollars at Walmart, well, there's really no choice there. I promise, when I have more money, I will shop at Walmart less. Or even stop. Who knows?

I do buy many things locally, but I realize they're not local items: Japanese and Himalayan rice. Irish steel cut oats and Italian cheese. The only truly local things we buy are eggs, milk and vegetables during the season. I also buy local yarn and fleece. But that's about it.

Living here in the countryside, there is less opportunity for local shopping than when I lived in New York City. I miss going to the green grocer, the bakery, the butcher, the pharmacy and the little newspaper shops. But even in New York City, those places are going by the wayside. That's not only a loss of local shopping, but a loss of community.

Another word about pay: Walmart pays its employees poorly. So does every other retailer employer. But, so does the school system, and that's criminal. There's enough inequity to go around in so many spheres, I don't know where to begin. This is too large for me, so I'm being more terse than I usually am.

Some days I wish I had succeeded in living a subsistence lifestyle, but I did not. And on my present half acre of land, with a mortgage, that's not going to happen.

I will say this, however, I did not buy a turkey at Walmart. For some reason (and maybe it was all that talk about factory farming), the idea of doing so was abhorent to me.

Painting note: Vincenzo Campi
The Fruit Seller 1580
Ah, that looks simply wonderful.

Stinginess

A few minutes ago, I got some ice cubes out of the freezer. I don't have an ice maker. I have those old fashioned things called ice cube trays (oh, what a hardship!) I emptied one and left the freezer door open while I filled the tray with water. It took about a minute.

A few years back, someone (whose name will go unmentioned) got angry at me for leaving a freezer door open in her house. She had a big freezer that was stocked to the brim, and I was trying to find something. I doubt that leaving the door open for a few minutes, at most, cost a lot of money in energy (anyone know the exact figures for this?) Yet, she was angered enough to raise her voice some and say, "Shut the door. You're wasting energy!"

Besides the fact that I find any adult who gets ticked off enough to raise their voice at someone in need of self assessment (seriously), I was, frankly, horrified. This happened years ago and it still bristles. That fact alone forces me to make an assessment of my own.

I realized that those same words, about the same thing, leaving the refrigerator or freezer door open, were words I'd heard throughout my childhood. Seems a very small thing, I'm sure, but it bothered me tremendously, for, just like the last time, these words were always uttered by people who had plenty of money and I'm talking rich people, not just your average upper middle class folks.

To me, the admonishments were only a sign of stinginess. There was no other reason. These people were not concerned with wasting electricity on a greater scale, such as leaving a smaller carbon footprint. It was all about being cheap, and making sure that others, especially those using your electricity, don't make you spend another red cent.

I wish I could remember the movie, but back in the eighties, the fellow who produced "Risky Business" produced another film, perhaps with the word "maid" in the title. In it, he portrayed a stingy rich family, epitomized by the mother yelling at a housecleaner for throwing tin foil in the garbage. The correct place for tin foil was in a huge ball, kept in a cabinet, and sold to someone for a bit of money went it reached a certain size. Anyone watching this film probably thought this was a funny (or not) bit of fiction. It wasn't.

I knew this family. This is exactly the type of thing they did. Whether they indeed saved tin foil, I can't be entirely sure of, but if it was possible to do so, and to get a few bucks or even a few cents for it, they would have done it.

I have some great stories about visiting this family's house, which I'll write about some time (I'm too head-achey today), but I'll say this now: if anything or anyone contributed to my absolute hatred of the rich, these folks may have been the ultimate culprits. A friend of mine and I have been discussing our attitudes about wealth recently and I've made no bones about my sheer childish feelings of jealousy and anger at those with money. Thankfully, those feelings of hatred, which do nothing but hurt me, have abated quite a bit. But I've not many people to attach these negative emotions to around these parts, so I'm not challenged. Put me in the Barney's perfume department in New York City and I would bet you a million bucks those feelings wold come rushing in, fast and furious.

It's much too beautiful a day to be thinking about this subject.

Painting note: Goya's "Portrait of the Marquis de Saint Adrian" 1800-1808 (exact date unknown). The Prado Museum calls this period of Goya's career "Portraits of the Aristocracy" (linked at Goya's name, previously)