Category Archives: art

Dec14

Gloria!

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“If we are lucky not to be displaced by war or poverty, the places we live are like bird’s nests.” – Gloria Steinem

I have long since lost count of how many times I have moved. Here’s a confession few know about me: I have been married four times. Three husbands, four marriages. All four ended in divorce. My first husband was a high school boyfriend. My parents had agreed to send me to boarding school after I threatened to run away – and I did so one summer. I managed to hide out for a couple of weeks in friend’s basements before a friend’s mother agreed to intervene on my behalf. By the age of 15 I couldn’t live at home any longer. I instinctively knew the situation was abusive, although it would be decades before I even began to unravel that situation.

I was 18 the first time I got married, and it only took a few months to figure out that my husband had a drug problem, and a few more months to realize there was nothing I could do about it. So I went “back home” to my parents, but only for a few awful days before finding a girlfriend I could rent a room from. And I never looked back, although I did go back again and again to pack up my younger siblings one by one and move them out. Not soon enough, of course, as the damage was done. Scrambling for survival myself, a safe place to sleep was all I had to offer.

By the third time I got married in my forties, I was no longer enduring physical or sexual abuse. That marriage would also prove intolerable, and not once, but twice. To this day we are still friends, and to this day he yet fails to comprehend any responsibility in it’s failing. As he so often said, we didn’t have a problem. I had a problem. As it happened, he was right, and my problem had a name.

The first fifty years of childhood are the hardest. I survived them by being scrappy. For the first 3 decades of living on my own I was able to find decent work, and when an emergency or large expense threatened my housing and independence, I would supplement my meager income by selling off family heirlooms, primarily beautiful antique furniture. I wish I could have kept it. Only a few small momentos still exist.

But this way of life (which I am only grateful for) leaves it’s scars. One of mine seems to be a deep, simmering grief for the home – THE home – that I have never known. It is truly all I’ve ever wanted for. A home of my own. Safe. Clean. Beautiful. A nest. Perhaps that is why I have always been fascinated by bird nests?!

In October of 1990, House and Garden magazine published an article by Gloria Steinem about her newly decorated NYC apartment, ‘Ms. Steinem on the Home Front.’ I still have that magazine. Somehow weird items have survived all the relocations…but in truth, this article made my heart sing. It has continued to inspire me all these years.

This morning, the 12th of December, 2024, I opened my YouTube feed and found this story. Gloria Steinem talking about her home of 58 years. I am watching through tears. If I had no other inspiration at all, Gloria would be enough.

Oct14

an artist lives here…

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Okay, well. As a general rule I do not like anything modern. Give me cabbage roses and old wicker any day. Maybe because I was born in the 1950’s and lived in a chaotic household? I am not knowing. Modern, contemporary, mid-century architecture and interior design gives me the willies. Like fingernails on a blackboard. But here is an entirely modern home filled with colorful art, and I quite like it.

In the interest of curiosity, and to challenge my creative limitations, I watch videos like I used to read shelter magazines, and still do read design books: I imagine myself in the space. I walk around, sit, sip, and relax myself with the use of my imagination. I learn a lot this way, both about how spaces can work, and even about myself. It’s what artists do…

But truth be told, while I can appreciate much about Margo Selby’s home, I’d be much more comfortable living in something more traditional. I will always be grieving the loss of Julia Reed, even though I did not know her. I loved her books and her attention to detail. She was a friend of the late Furlow Gatewood and wrote a gorgeous book about his houses, One Man’s Folly. She called her NOLA apartment her cabinet of curiosities. Whatever, wherever, however you make your home, take this tip from Julia: surround yourself with the things that make you happy.

One Man’s Folly by Julia Reed, https://amzn.to/3zYI3gn The House on First Street, by Julia Reed, https://amzn.to/3U67LXg

Oct13

how to be alive

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Remember Sark’s famous poster of 1990, HOW TO BE AN ARTIST?! When I first had one I crossed out the word Artist at the top and mimicked the colorful font, writing Alive above it. I thought it was great.

Life was so much simpler then. The poster gave us directives that were actually…do-able! Now I’m an old woman, and most of the directives on that poster seem very childish to me. Never mind impossible. I wouldn’t go back in time; nor would I trade places with anyone. I have so much to be grateful for. But I would be remiss were I not honest with you – the losses have taken their toll.

And honesty, or it’s new buzzword, authenticity, is the only way to live. But like all of life, it takes on a deeper meaning as we age and hopefully, mature. We learn too late in life to take people as they are. Most people will never live authentically. They don’t know themselves well, and although they might believe themselves to be honest people, their honesty is superficial. It means they aren’t living a life of crime; it doesn’t mean they are going to be emotionally vulnerable. Or see any value in that.

Here’s the thing about vulnerability that is hard for me to grasp: it requires everything of me, and nothing of anyone else. This morning as I write millions of people are struggling to survive in horrific conditions, still and again. As it happens, here in the United States, much of the country has been devastated by back to back hurricanes. One of my dearest friends is fighting for her life in Florida. She is terribly ill with RSV, and days without power, food, fresh water. Her daughter has tried to drive the hour to her only to be turned back by police. The roads are not passable. And this is not where the worst conditions exist.

Life is daunting. I guess that I naively had some romantic notion that it would get easier as I got older. That’s because I was shielded from the harshest realities of life – from the honesty of it’s brutality. I believe that was probably true for many of my generation. In our elders’ defense, I think they believed that medical science would save them from suffering. If only that were true.

Let me tell you, I am far more fortunate than most, and I know it. It is almost impossible for my body and mind to contain my gratitude some days. I cry my way through many days. I’m scared much of the time. In many ways, life is harder – but it is also simpler. When it gets real, and it will, it gets distilled right down to the bones. That’s where I want to live now. Stripped of defensiveness. Authentically vulnerable. No more pretending that everything is going to be alright here. It’s not. Let’s just accept that and go from there, and see where life takes us.

The poster did get some things right, gave us some useful advise, especially DO IT FOR LOVE.

Oct3

“Everything I have is yours.”

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It’s looking like this week’s posts might jump all over the place…because, mine. This has turned into the Cliff Note version of my Morning Pages journal and I’m all over the place this week.

Linda says “there’s not a style,” but I disagree. There is her style. She literally dreamed about the house before she ever saw it. And like her collection of hares – not bunny rabbits! – she is fierce. And gracious. This is one of the longest videos I will ever post. I’m always looking for short videos to illustrate my writing. But this home tour is irresistible. I like irresistible. Follow along with me here and we will pick this apart and see what exciting, creative tips and solutions we can apply in our own sacred spaces. Because this space is sacred. This is home as altar.

There are collections all over the house – and every one of the pieces hold meaning. Many of them started early in her life, and began with her parents. As one Linda says to the other Linda, “you are a seeker,” and oh, what a lovely response: “I’m curious about other ways to live in this world.” Well that says it all to me – how this home is the rich expression of a life lived with curiosity. This is what home is for.

Home is to act as a daily reminder that we are “in the cage, or out of the cage…” in our attitude and action. That speaks volumes about this curious woman, homemaker and gardener. She is in the world but not of it. Where am I today? Where are you?

When asked what she is looking for in her travels, she says, “I’m looking for an experience, and the things find me.” Don’t put your things on display – put your experiences out as daily reminders of your memories. Let your memories serve you, as reminders of days when you were out of the cage, winged & free. When your curiosity got the better of you and led you to places and people unknown. And I’m here to tell you that those places can be where you sit this minute. Like when I used to dance at Detroit Roller Wheels, and we’d yell “where’s the party at?!” and be answered, “right here under my shoes!” (Where did you think Michael learned to dance like that?)

You will see that this home itself hasn’t changed much since the 90’s…and yet it would show beautifully in any of today’s publications. It’s beautiful and functional. Have you noticed me turning green?! Oh how envious I am of that kitchen. Saltillo tiles, big window over the sink, storage, counter space into next week. That and the Josef Frank wallpaper in the guest bath…my heart is fluttering. Here she tells us that she has 1800 square feet and she lives in the entire house. Yep. I get it. First of all, that’s just about the perfect square footage, 1600 – 1800 (for me…alone) and yes, we all ought to live fully in our entire space. There is no moss growing under her feet.

Sep3

the sacrament of ploppage

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Anne LaMott tells me it is time to plop down into this new promise to myself; the promise that I am going to get serious now about the art – “the art that longs to be created using your hands, your heart, your spirit, and your kitchen table.” She tells me that all creative work is a debt of honor. You have to do it as a radical act. Because if you leave it too long your curiosity and creative muscles will atrophy. I am at that edge where I know it is almost too late, and I am terrified.

For most of my adult life I fought for this, this right to live creatively. But as Anne also says, “life is very life-y…” and everything and everyone else took precedent. I erroneously thought that all I wanted was a studio space. A studio space. I cannot tell you how many homes I have lived in. Let’s just say dozens. The average American moves every seven years; for decades I moved almost yearly. In every house I looked for a place to make a studio. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to make and keep a boundary around my creativity. Because I also wanted a happy family life. Anne says that no one in your family wants you to be creative. No one wants to hear about it. I wish I’d known. I was confused when they weren’t all supportive. When they were sitting in my tiny studio closet when I thought they weren’t home and that I could finally sneak away for some quiet alone time…I didn’t know that living a creative life was antithetical to having a happy family and a happy household. I don’t know how I could have been so naive for so long, but I didn’t know.

Is creativity such an indulgence? It is if your family is unhealthy. They need you. I was needed. Really, really needed. And as I now know in hindsight, I couldn’t save any of them. Not a one. But certainly not for lack of trying.

Aug20

unzip yourself

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“You don’t have to be a genius. You can just be honest.” – Yulia Mahr

Can I? Before I can possibly be honest with anyone, I must be honest with myself. I have so many blind spots in my psyche, so many un-self-awarenesses. It’s not for lack of trying. I do want to grow up before I outgrow this life. Now at this late stage I tend to be repulsed by immaturity, by any lack of humility or gratitude in anyone I meet. The second I sense an inkling of entitlement I am frantically searching for an exit. And yet I catch myself expounding my entitlement in the most unaware statements of idiocy. And cringe.

And so I am drawn to humility like a moth to flame. I also know from a lifetime of experience that false humility is the narcissist’s favorite coat. The wolf has gutted the sheep and stolen it’s skin, and it is dangerous to get too close. As life threatening for me as the dis-eases I have battled these past few months – Lyme, Covid and E.Coli. Deadly.

Yes, I do believe there is an equal psychology to every pathology. The truth will out; which is to say that our unconscious and unresolved childhood hurts will eventually kill us. Every one of us. Even you. Science informs us that the unstressed human body would live far longer than we do, that number being somewhere between two and five hundred years, debated in the higher echelons of biology. But we don’t.

And while I did learn studying Neuro-linguistic programming that “the reason is always a parent.” (- Virginia Satir, Peoplemaking, The Emotional Hostage) we cannot blame our parents for this. They were just as embroiled as we are, perhaps more so. They had far fewer resources and opportunities. That is not meant as an excuse for their hurtful behaviors. But I am increasingly convinced that there is an entity responsible, and it is an unhealthy culture.

There is no actual biological justification for war. Or famine. Or poverty. Or control of any kind. Again: OR CONTROL OF ANY KIND. It is entirely unnecessary and it is unhealthy. Here we are in the 21st century of recorded history just beginning to catch a whiff of the fact that perhaps the indigenous tribes of the world were doing alright without colonial intervention…they lived in a culture of cooperation. What was good for an individual was good for the collective. They lived instinctively, intuitively. They didn’t need weather radar. They sensed inclement weather and acted accordingly. We built defenses.

I am not about to go live off the land at this age. I am unequivocally uninterested in surviving any major disaster, natural or manmade. I fear pain and suffering, not being dead. How do we heal our culture? Hell if I know. I do know, however, that we are not getting out of here intact without exercising our creativity. I know it’s the way. Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.

Aug18

tangible evidence

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“Artists love other artists. Shadow artists are gravitating to their rightful tribe but cannot yet claim their birthright.” – Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

Since I have been ill the past few weeks I have been binge watching a British show called Portrait Artist of the Year. Fortunately it has 11 seasons, each with twelve episodes. It’s so nerve-wracking, and so inspiring. Free to watch through YT. It’s ‘The Voice’ for visual artists; it launches careers. I couldn’t participate in anything like that; I’d fall apart. That is a clue about the psychological pathology I spoke of in yesterday’s post. I simply live too close to the ledge of grief to be so exposed in public.

I do remember one season where they chose to advance an artist who had behaved, to my eye, totally inappropriate in the first round. She was irritable with, and demanding of, the model – to the point of rudeness. She ignored the other two fellow artists who were also painting the same person from other angles. Never mind what they wanted! She micromanaged the group like a herding dog with a flock. The judges must not have caught the bad behavior which showed up in the editing room later. Had I been in that panel of artists I would have told her to sit down and shut up. And maybe decked her, who knows…I’ve never been violent. Yet.

Back in my twenties, going through a divorce from my abusive husband who is the father of my son, I sought counseling. I had experienced it first when a schoolmate in college recommended I see her psychologist sister. It was eye-opening and, of course, I’ve been an advocate since. Counseling is self care. You go to the doctor when you have a health issue, why on earth wouldn’t you get help sorting out the psycho-pathology? Don’t you want to experience your wholeness? If nothing else, this trained professional can offer some objective feedback and tract your emotional health just like a doctor does your physical health. That said, I’ve met some mighty dysfunctional and just-plain-wrong therapists throughout the decades. There are quacks in that field, too. But you don’t give up.

I’ve told this story before, about this talented and insightful therapist I would later study with at Wayne State. When she posed concepts that were foreign to me, I often told her, I need “tangible evidence.” In other words, I wanted proof – preferably in advance – that this crap would work.

Here’s the thing about therapy. And medicine. And art. The evidence takes time. It comes after the healing. As Steven Levine writes in the life changing book Who Dies?, terminally ill patients sometimes die and sometimes recover, and healing has little to do with it either way. Healing means becoming conscious, and it’s an ongoing process. It requires tremendous courage, because no one is coming out of that transformation as the same person they were when they went in. I remember being told that once, when my son was going through cancer treatment. He was going to attend Camp Make-A-Dream in Missoula, Montana. One of the attendant counselors warned me, “your son will not return home as the same person who left.” I was okay with that. I’d have been okay with any part of that bargain, whether I understood it or not. Just keep him alive.

So here’s the deal, McNeal…you have to let go first. You force the exhale before you’re ready…knowing you might run out of air. It’s called faith. That is the main ingredient of healing, of consciousness. Julia Cameron knows it. She calls it spiritual electricity. No lights without it. And it isn’t part of her 12 week process – it’s in the Basic Principles – prior to beginning. Before any tangible evidence that this will work.

You have to consciously decide to trust the process. You pretty much have to be at the point of no return, left with nothing to lose. Sickness will do that for you. Trauma. So will art. They rip you open and lay bare your entire being. Only by being raw and vulnerable do we realize any true healing. ACIM (A Course In Miracles) says it best: In my defenselessness my safety lies. That’s the only place any safety lies.

As far as any art I’ve ever shown, or writing for that matter, it has rarely met with any encouragement at all. I had one instructor who marked my essay “don’t give up your day job.” And a close trusted friend who I showed a drawing to respond with: “I don’t get it. But then I’m not one of your groupies.” I’ve also had some amazing encouragement from other instructors, both in writing and art. A grade school teacher entered a painting into the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards contest unbeknownst to me and I won. I was in 6th grade. Again in 12th grade a teacher entered a poem into a student contest run by The Atlantic Monthly magazine, and they published it. If you don’t consider that tangible evidence, I don’t know what is.

And yet…here I am, at 70, wondering how and why I never pursued any practice in the creative arts. I couldn’t care less about fame or fortune, but some supplemental income would have been great. Some sense of confidence. Some joy. Obviously I am fragile of ego and easily led astray by others’ opinions.

But this ramble is to attest that the faith comes first, called blind because we have to face the unknown without the evidence. I want to heal my root chakra. And my throat chakra. I will speak the truth as far as I know it, always. And I will TRUST that I am safe – not in spite of my vulnerability, but because of it. I’m not done yet – but I am done living in the shadows.

I had the great good fortune of meeting and taking a class with my favorite artist, Elaine Dalcher. She isn’t done yet, either. A kinder, smarter person you will never meet. Nor a better teacher. Wow, has she got a healing story for us. Visit her website: https://www.elainedalcher.com/

Aug16

runaway wife and queens of the night

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She wanted more freedom in her life. But she was “too normal, and too happy.” She felt trapped…so Katherine Bradford started making things. She wasn’t looking for a lifestyle change, but she wanted an artists’ life. Born in 1942, she felt trapped in the cultural confines of expectation – to be a helpmate to her husband, to be a mother, to stay at home and raise her children. And then she dipped a brush in a pot of paint, and the rest, as they say…

Aug15

a maker of marks

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“Like art, revolutions come from combining what exists from what has never existed before.” – Gloria Steinem

Jean Banas seems to be onto something. She has certainly stumbled upon the true fountain of youth. Such a sweet little old lady…hahahahaaaa! Not. Sweet, yes. Old, maybe. Lady, mmmmm, okay, I’ll give her that. I wouldn’t want to mess with her in a scuffle. She began painting in her 70’s.

She reminds me of my Mother, who didn’t live to see the age of 70. She was tiny and soft-spoken and easy going. And a force to be reckoned with. Let’s not assume that “little old ladies” are ever what they seem. I have a confession: when I started watching some YouTube videos about older artists, I expected to find them discovering their creativity in their sixties and 70’s. Retired, children grown. Making cute things in the basement or garage…I was not prepared for the magnificent inspiration of many, many older artists. Even well into their 90’s and over a hundred years of age – and anything but retiring. I feel as if I’ve only just begun to uncover some tantalizing promise of renewal and rejuvenation. Join me!