Don't Drink the Kool Aid: A Bit About Formative Years

Yesterday I found myself persistently humming bits and pieces of a melody as I went about my day...the same bits over and over again. But what was the song? Couldn't quite figure it out, but couldn't get it out of my head either. As the day progressed more notes and a couple of phrases fell into place, and I finally discovered, to my own amazement, that I had been singing an old hymn.

I grew up churchy. Real churchy. And not regular, Baptist church on the corner every Sunday churchy, but all encompassing "way of life", live, breathe, wake, sleep for The Church churchy. The Church was the Worldwide Church of God, widely considered a cult, complete with charismatic leader, laws about what to eat, wear and do, dire, impending consequences for breaking said laws, our own hymns, holy days, literature and even our own colleges, and most importantly of all, a ticking time bomb doomsday prophesy that was going to take place within our lifetimes (at which time all you people that made up "the world" would perish in "the war to end all wars" and the few and the righteous would be swiftly transported to "the place of safety", commonly believed to be Petra...you know that place where Indy finds the grail cup in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade...seriously...no seriously, I kid you not).

Now the purpose of this blog post is not to get all "O woe is my screwed up childhood" on you. It could have been better, it could have been worse. I at least ended up with some amusing cocktail stories.

It has been a very long time since I disassociated myself from The Church and began working through all the attendant issues that came with growing up that way. These days I generally feel pretty well adjusted...and happy. I think a lot about where I am, and where I am going, with very few thoughts spared for the far distant past. So it was a bit of a surprise to find myself, humming that blast from the past purple hymnal tune, even more of a surprise to realize, as the day went on, and it drifted back up to the surface of my mind fragment, by fragment like the flotsam from some long submerged wreck...that I could remember nearly the whole thing!

I can't remember what I just ate for breakfast. I have been known to forget my own phone number with an alarmingly Alzheimers-like frequency. I have read entire books, that are almost like new to me when I pick them up again a couple of years later. Yet here is this song, sung in rotation with about 100 others, on various long Saturday afternoons of my childhood, that has somehow been indelibly recorded in the deep recesses of my brain. Apparently you can take the girl out of the cult, but you can never quite take the cult out of the girl. I guess that's why they call them your formative years. For better or for worse, growing up in The Church is an unshakable part of what makes me, me.

This got me thinking about the habits, experiences and exposures that we are helping to create for our sons during their formative years. When they were really little, I tied myself up in knots over having them listen to just the right Mozart songs at just the right developmental window, in order to grow their brains just so (I know, gag.). But since they've started school it often feels like we're just running to keep up, rather than making enough mindful choices...fill in this form, call this person, break up a squabble, help with spelling homework, dinner, break up a squabble, try to tidy up a bit, zone out exhausted in front of the computer, bedtime routine, more squabbling (they are twins!) etc. Still, along the way, they have been exposed to all their dad and my nerdy interests, done some fun stuff, seen some pretty good examples of types of human behaviour good and bad (thankfully mostly good) and all this cobbled together will be their deep foundation. It bears some more consideration, I think, these remaining formative years and what we choose for the bits that are within our control.

So the hymn in my head was a good reminder of how indelibly marked each of us are with the habits and experiences of those years. Not trapped by them like victims. I can still choose whether to remain angry, or to hum that tune with some humour...but there is no denying that it is there in my head.



(I wonder what exactly will become a part of E & L's emotional landscapes? I'd put money on the boy wizard and the Skywalker clan looming large for them. Cool. I'm wagering that the simple morals in those stories will do way more good than yet another convoluted Bible interpretation any day.)

In Your Face Klimt (or the nude I really wanted to paint today )

Crazy with Hormones

Mixed media in my big art journal. Now that's the real slim shady.

The Naked Crab

This challenge has been kicking my ass. First off all the naked body issues stuff, then the fact that my vision far outstrips my talent at this point, and I am feeling those limitations keenly, as I take my first few whacks at figure drawing, and then there is the fact that I am getting a little Klimt-ed out, or maybe just not in a very Klimt-y mood right now. His paintings are all dreamy, glowing sensuality, and quite frankly, I am all angsty, crabby PMS.

This is a Klimt woman:



This is me:



You can clearly see why I am struggling to get into the spirit of this thing?!

Many attempts have landed in the bin. I seem to be fighting the sub-conscious urge to slim myself down. I managed a sketch I really liked, good likeness in the face, decently proportional, but then realized that I had somehow managed to elongate my torso and slim my hips at least 15-20 pounds worth (O, the programming to want to be skinny runs deep!). Another attempt yielded a reasonable body and a totally effed up face, or a rather nice sketch gets badly botched when I try to paint it. Grrrrr!

Today's efforts produced something that I actually like, not love mind you, but it won't be binned. There are parts I like, and the body is much more true. The face looks a bit like a cross between Professor Snape and my Aunt Vivian, but really that's how I am feeling today so perhaps it is apt. Anyway, I am sharing it as a work in progress. The great thing about getting so frustrated with the process is that I no longer have any qualms about the body reveal. I am much more hesitant about the flaws in the work itself than I am about my own naked butt. Maybe painting and drawing it 57 kabillion times, has brought me some peace.


I am thinking this will probably get torn up or deconstructed somehow and incorporated into a bigger piece.

Now, I am off to threaten to "slug" people and sit pensively by a toy piano.

Happiness is...a Really Big Art Journal

When I first started art journaling, I purposefully made myself a small book. Nothing fancy, just a little brown paper covered, card stock filled, amateurishly coptic bound dealie. The idea of a large, blank page staring up at me, waiting to be filled, would have been intimidating, but something small I felt I could handle. I continued to make books around the same scale (about 8"x5" for an open 2 page spread)and happily worked away. But I got to the point where I was feeling more and more cramped. I love art journaling (maybe even more than working on individual pieces), and I needed much more room to work. But how to make a much bigger art journal simply and very cheaply?

Would you believe, manila folders? I used this vid by samanthakira as a jumping off point, and away I went. I was skeptical about using manila file folders as a surface, but after being gessoed, they are really strong and perfect for whatever mixed media you want to throw at them. Probably not archival quality, may not be around for my great, great grandchildren to look at, but whatev. Life is impermanence, and it sure is fun to have a place where I am free to just mess around.

So I've been working away, and loving it. Here are a few pages:
(the first 2 are inspired by one of Gary Reef's "Loosen Me Up" course exercises which I can't seem to get enough of. There may be a series of crazy ladies coming! First is Crazy with Worry and the 2nd, which is still a WIP I think, is Love Crazy.)









PS Haven't had time to start the naked challenge yet, but am planning to work on it this afternoon. eek!

PS II Sorry for the shoddy photo quality, but the idea of having to take the time to scan them in properly and tidy them up in photoshop, fills me with a very painful sort of ennui. So this folks, is as good as it gets on this busy day. :)

Would You Get Naked for Art?

I spent half an hour alone in my bedroom taking naked pictures of myself this afternoon.

Yup, sure did.

No, it wasn't for a late Valentine's gift for my hubby, nor am I trying to be included in next month's Real Chicks, Real Nekkid: The Pale and Pasty Edition. And I don't have any funny moles that I'm trying to get a closer look at, and I haven't gone off the deep end with rampant narcissism...yet. It's for art! All for art!

Gary Reef has unveiled his second Klimt inspired challenge. Not sure if you can read the link without signing up to his ning, so here's the gist:

You are to make a naked self portrait of yourself in Klimt style. You can show as much or as little flesh as you like. You can choose to cover your body with fantastic Klimt style fabrics or be more adventurous and show more skin.

Klimt’s artistic creed could be summed up by the idea of naked truth. “The truth is naked: this fact had been known by… artistic practice for centuries. But the (Secession movement)… was able to turn this statement around…nakedness is true.” (Rainer Metzger, quoted from Gustav Klimt: Drawings and Watercolours).“Whoever is committed to the truth must be committed to nakedness.”

Now there is enough blog material for a month of Sundays in this idea of "naked truth". It is an interesting one, although I do strongly suspect that in Klimt's particular case, a proclivity for painting nudes had just as much to do with him being a perv, as it did with any lofty artistic ideals. Still there is something to be said for the absolute vulnerability of being naked. When you are stripped of all props and pretensions, it is hard to be other than you really are, and it is exciting as an artist to think about capturing some of that undressed honesty. So I'm doing it...because I like the idea of exploring my truth through art, and I like the idea of being bold. And quite frankly, the whole idea kind of amuses me (clearly, Klimt isn't the only perv around here! ;)

But the logistics of a mild mannered mother of two, turning into a wanton, nude self portrait painting, art goddess are considerable. I quickly ruled out the idea of sketching whilst in the buff. I mean, who has that kind of time just to be naked? I can picture it now, two little kids banging on the bedroom door, demanding snacks and asking awkwardly penetrating questions, while I am in there, boobs smudged with charcoal, hunched over my paper scribbling feverishly away. And also, it's cold. So I snuck up to the bedroom this afternoon, while the light was good and the progeny were in school, to snap a few reference photos.

I was prepared to be horrified...to be stabbing at that delete button, with my cheeks burning, as I vowed never, ever to eat chocolate again, and then vehemently emptying the recylce bin on my computer...twice, just to be sure. But you know, for a slightly chubby, pink and pale skinned lady, I am really not so bad. Who knew? With a little photoshop action, I'd really be laughin'.

But no. No photoshop. This is about truth.

So obstacle one, of the naked challenge has been sorted. Next up, when will I draw it? How covert should I be? Does it permanently scar 9 year old boys to see naked, but tasteful portraits of their mother? (Very tasteful, no full frontal for me, thank you very much. But there will be some bum action, and at least one nipple.) Is it ethically wrong to slim yourself down just a wee bit when working on a challenge about truth? (the truth is I want to slim myself down just a wee bit!) Should I add strategically placed bits of Klimt-style mosaic or go for the nekkid, nude gusto? Will I have the cohones to post the finished portrait on the GR ning? And what the heck should I do with all these extra pictures??? (Pale and Pasty Edition here I come!)

(painting above is Goldfish by Gustav Klimt)

Overprotective Underprotection

My parents were overprotective. Watching Goonies, riding my bike with my friends to the 7-Eleven, going to so & so's house for a sleepover...you name it, I wasn't allowed to do it. This caused considerable frustration. It also fostered a sense of distrust in the people around me and my own abilities. The world must be a horrible place, full of evil influences, and cruel or careless people just waiting to pounce! And clearly, I was weak, naive and easily corrupted...just a milk-skinned little girl, ripe for harm or victimization, with no power of my own or even over myself. Certainly not my parents intended message, but a strong one nevertheless.

So I swore that I would not be overprotective when my turn came. I would let my children test boundaries, and try and fail on their own, plumbing the depths of their own strengths and weaknesses and learning about the world around them, in their own time. Mmmmm, uh huh.

Fast forward to the moment when the nurses laid two tiny babies in our arms. At around 4 pounds each they seemed impossibly small, impossibly frail...and we were to take them home? ...by ourselves!? How could they even survive? I would drop them. The dog would sit on them. Some mysterious thing would go ever so slightly wrong and the newness and fragility of their impossibly tiny selves would be ended. The responsibility felt crushing. I freaked out if their socks were mismatched, and beat myself up for days over having the bath water off optimal temperature by a couple degrees. The crazy had set in.

The dog did not sit on them, nobody dropped anybody and lots of little things went wrong, but they somehow survived and thrived. But still there were first steps, bumped heads, viruses and infections, stitches and the time one of them ate half a bottle of Bengay rub. We were very careful, not only about what happened to their small bodies, but about what went into their minds. We didn't allow much TV, and none with commercials. We wanted to avoid all the violence, gender typing and consumer priming that we could. We wanted their blossoming senses of themselves and the world to have only the best influences possible. The most inspiring and educational books, songs, activities and outings were painstakingly chosen. ...I am exhausting myself just writing about it...yup, definitely in the grip of crazy (otherwise known as idealistic new parenthood).

Fast forward a bit more, and they are each developing their own distinct tastes, and we ease up to make room for this. And they now have little peers to keep up with, we make room for this too, but did we ever have a rude awakening! Little Suzy eats cheetos and orange pop for snack time. Little Jimmy has an Xbox, and little Calvin has watched all of Star Wars; Revenge of the Sith. Why can't we watch all of Star Wars; Revenge of the Sith? (...at the age of almost 5.)

More years pass, in which anaphylactic food allergies and severe environmental allergies are diagnosed. They are both sick a lot. And there are differences...gaps between them and their peers, growing ever wider, that have nothing to do with not being allowed to watch R rated movies and play M for mature video games (yup, the ante has been upped). More diagnoses... Aspergers, ADHD, GAD...more reasons to keep holding on a little too tightly. Until my son says to me the other day, with all the same frustration I used to feel, "Mom you never let me do anything! You are overprotective!"

*Groan*

The balance is hard. Harder still if your child has any special needs, any concrete reasons why they really can't or shouldn't for at least part of the time. We swim upstream, against the torrent of ridiculous media misrepresentation about what a childhood or family should resemble (or more importantly, should buy!), and all the other under-protective parents, who seem to be too busy, jaded or invested in that consumer vision, to really stop and make thoughtful choices for their kids bodies and minds. And certainly the world can be dangerous, there are a few cruel people out there and many careless ones. In the midst of all this pressure and risk, we still need to give our kids enough freedom to foster a sense of competency and encourage growth. It is hard.

So we realized that it's time to loosen up a bit more. Letting that frustration at too many limits build and build, is at least as dangerous as half the stuff we'd like to protect them from (as many parents discover when their kid hits the "wait a minute, you can't make me anymore!?" age, and does a downward spiral into PAAAAAAAAAAARRRTY, having never learned self control and responsibility in increments along the way). We will be saying "yes" a bit more. They are smart, strong, thoughtful kids, and we've got to make sure we show them our confidence in that, often.

Inspirations and Influences 2

More good art stuff.

You find one blog with someone's work you absolutely love, which links to more blogs you like and so on and so on. One could get lost for days! And then occasionally you find another person's work that makes you stop short with wonder and appreciation...better yet if that person is generous with sharing tips and techniques, like Julie Prichard at The Land of Lost Luggage. Her work has all of these wonderful layers, and colours with an aged feel, which gives her pieces a beautiful sense of history. And it looks like she'll be giving online classes in May?! How cool is that?



Next the fantastic video by atree3 which has given me my new mantra, "Shut up and paint!"



I like all her videos, and she does mind-bogglingly beautiful quilt work.

And an artist that needs no introduction, whom I have long admired, but am revisiting recently with fresh eyes and amazement...Dave McKean.



I mean what can I even say? One of the most astounding visual imaginations ever. Haunting. Inspiring.

Love to all my peeps, old, new and yet to be made, who are taking the time to read my blog and/or comment. You really make my day. :)

I will now, shut up and paint.

To Set the Record Straight

Just so nobody gets the wrong impression, with me gushing in adoration for my two little progenies and waxing eloquent about the joy, joy, joy of motherhood, here are the straight facts:

1. Sometimes I yell, snap, scowl, get impatient, sarcastic or generally unpleasant with the 2 adored progenies.

2. Sometimes I am way too soft, as evidenced by the "kinda" sick kid laying on the floor in front of me reading Captain Underpants, who should probably be at school. I have been known to extend bedtimes, rescind punishments, give extra large portions of dessert and I never, ever serve brussel sprouts.

3. I probably spend too much time on the computer / making art / with my nose in a book when I could be baking pies from scratch, hiding cute little notes in their sock drawers and / or actually washing some socks to put in said sock drawers.

4. If I don't spend a certain amount of time selfishly doing my own thing (see # 3), I will lose my ever-lovin' mind. Yes, motherhood is challenging and fulfilling...but is it intellectually stimulating? Nuh-uh.

5. My house is generally messy enough to warrant a visit from some sort of health or child welfare agency (see #4). Please don't tip them off.

6. Sometimes we have sunbutter and honey sandwiches for supper.

7. Last year I forgot about early dismissal day...twice. My children waited for 45 minutes in front of the school before getting the office to call me, and are probably scarred for life.

8. I secretly hate playing action figures (shhhh...don't tell) and have resorted to many underhanded tricks to get out of doing so. There are just so many times I can have my knuckles bashed with the Thing, before I am outta there! (thanks Uncle Craig!) Even worse, if I had girls who played with dollies or Barbies or had sweet little tea parties, I would probably play more often...and longer.

9. I love the moment when the door shuts behind them, as they head out for school. The house is so quiet. I have a cup of tea, and waste time writing strangely confessional blog posts for no particular reason.

Mixed media Klimt inspired artwork for Gary Reef group. The pic is a little dark, but I can't be fussed to take another one (see lazy! Add "lazy" to the list above.)This was hard to do, and after I'd painstakingly painted our faces, I forgot that I'd used some watercolours and tried to wipe back a top layer of walnut ink. Faces partially obliterated! *groan* Fixed them up as best I could, and learned valuable lessons about water solubility.

Ok that's enough of that. I shall recommence polishing my halo of saintly motherhood...now. ;)

Letting Go

I just got back from volunteering at my sons' school for "pancake morning", and I feel tired, slightly weepy and a little blue and blurry around the edges. Why all this post traumatic pancake stress? Allergies. Anaphylactic egg allergies for both of my sons.

While the other moms chatted and flipped, without a care in the world, I was on full battle alert, mind racing, adrenaline pumping...let's just get everyone outta here alive. Making sure my sons' pancakes, carefully prepared beforehand at home, were hermetically sealed and safe from the great clouds of egg containing pancake mix. Washing my hands until raw, and trying to keep my clothes impeccably clean as I helped to prepare the eggy pancakes for the other kids, lest I should cross contaminate my own children's food. Strategizing about where my two should sit, and how to keep them safest without making them feel ostracized. Containing my panic and thinking on my feet when I noticed the other kids touching the syrup bottles to their pancakes /getting pancakes everywhere, and/or my son shrinking away from a giant plate of eggy pancakes that a student teacher accidentally sat by his plate.

(Out of my Hands, mixed media 30x25cm)

When one of my sons was 5, we almost lost him. We unwittingly allowed him to consume a minute amount of egg that was an ingredient in something else. Within minutes he was vomiting, swelling, losing blood pressure and struggling to breath. I will never forget the sight of him lying, tiny and frail, in that hospital bed, face so mottled and distended that he was barely recognizable, as the nurses and doctors pressed around him fighting to save his life. It is burnt into my memory with the brutal clarity reserved for only the worst of moments, the most crushing of emotions. He cried out for help at one point. "Mommy, help me! Help me!", as a nurse jabbed him again and again trying to get the IV into his collapsing veins, and he couldn't breathe and he was terrified. And of course, we couldn't help. We couldn't do anything, my husband and I, other than hold his other hand, and try to reassure him with the stream of platitudes that were all our shock-empty brains could muster. The utter helplessness of that moment. You stand at that precipice of loss and are forever changed. All because of a little bit of egg.

So the stakes for us are a little higher than for your average family, for a birthday party, or a trip to the movie theatre or a pancake morning at school. They have other life threatening allergies too, my sons. It's not just eggs. For one of them it's peanuts and most legumes and tomatoes too. And it's not just them actually consuming their allergens that we have to worry about, it's the dreaded cross contamination (something that should be safe has somehow come into contact with an allergen) and contact reactions (simply touching the allergen, or touching something that someone else who was in contact with the allergen had touched previously may cause a reaction) that are the most difficult to avoid. We do our very best. We are vigilant about following all the allergy-safe rules. We have a great school, with good allergy policies. We take an active role in advocating for our sons and educating others, within the school community and beyond, and are so grateful for the teachers, parents etc. who are willing to help us reduce the risk, and take the extra time and trouble required for our sons to participate in some of the regular kid activities that would otherwise be too dangerous (i.e. birthday parties). But the simple fact remains that when my child walks out of the door at the beginning of his day, he has less chance of making it home again, healthy and alive, than yours does.

As Billy Pilgrim would say, "so it goes."

I often have parents shake their heads and say "I just don't know how you do it", "I would be a nervous wreck", "how do you even let them out of your sight?" etc. etc. I have no good answer for them. I could try to mumble something about childhood leukemia and severe cognitive impairments and just being grateful for what we have, but really what's the point? It could always be better, it could always be worse. We all walk the paths that we have to walk, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, in good weather and in bad. And so it goes. There are certainly times of stress, as evidenced by this blog post and my burning desire to curl up in the fetal position with a tumbler-full of gin right now...but mostly, we just get on with it. We do our best to avoid an emergency, then take a deep breath and let them go.

None of us are really guaranteed that our children, spouses, siblings, friends will walk back through the door on any given day. Most of us feel quite remote and insulated from death and loss here in the long-lived, safety-belted comfort of North America...but the truth is that we are all really just a breath away from tragedy. Maybe knowing it is a gift. I stood at the precipice of loss and was forever changed. Maybe I hug them even more tightly when I do have them in my arms, and thrill to the sweetness of seeing them bounding towards the car at the end of the day even more deeply, than I otherwise could, if life felt safer.

When they came home for lunch, they were both happy and completely well. They thought their "pancake morning" was really great and that their special pancakes were even better than the ones the other kids had. No post traumatic pancake stress for them, just trust and enjoyment...which means that I did good. So at ease, soldier. And stay out of the gin.