Artistic expressions

Art is about so many things. Impressions/interpretation of the artist. And that of the experiencer. A message/thought/idea that needs to be conveyed/experienced. Emotions. Expressing what isn't "there." Or what "is." So many things go into a painting, a song, the written word, the oral story. And it goes on. Home furnishings, building design, car design, etc. We are surrounded with our artistic desires and expressions.

When I paint for myself, I push. Beyond the appearance of something in front of me. I paint with all kinds of feelings about my subject. I'm sensitive. I've been told I have a minimalistic sense of design. Some think I don't push enough, others think too much. Or that my textures are wrong, colors too saturated, form not accurate. Have heard it all. My response? GO PICK UP A BRUSH!

Once you do, the critiques diminish. And truth is experienced. The sane and insane approach you have toward a blank canvas staring you in the face translates into anxiety, fear and courage. For me, blank canvases are not the problem. I'm almost manic with designs and ideas. My books are full. I am a romantic, minimalistic painter, trying to find her voice. Not anyone else's.

The challenge. You see, my job is to paint for other people. That is how I earn my living. And so, I have the ability to adapt to the request. I actually enjoy the challenge. However, in the process, I have lost the direction of my own personal work. Is this bad? Nope. I know this and I have direction because of it.

I think the general public gets turned on when they see realistic work because they marvel at the accuracy required to replicate. Me? I say, easy stuff. But what about it's soul? What about the movement? Texture? How does it make you FEEL? Another thing? When you look at a painting and you see something missing, or not defined, or defined, whatever. If it bugs you, don't think the painter was wrong or didn't do something right. Trust me. It's all intentional. For me? I leave stuff out to get down to the bones of the subject matter. The feelings, the truth I wish to convey...as I see it or experience it. Know my friendly experiencers, that each brush stroke has great intention behind it. Nothing has been missed. It's all purposeful. And is the case for most artists.

I am not about details. Never have been. Global thinker. Big picture. I haven't the patience to get busy with the minute. It's not important to me. (ask my ex-boyfriends!) I mean, I was trained in the '70's and early '80's. Impressionism, abstract realism, surrealism, etc. were on the agenda. It influenced me. Pollack, Escher, Dali, Turner, Whistler, my father.

Eh, I'm just griping. It's been a rough week.

Okay. Rambling. Point is. I'm out there, I have talent. Stretching boundaries. And I've only been painting for 8 years.

What more can I ask of myself? It's up to the viewer of my work to get the most they can out of it; they are 50% of the experience. It's a relationship. Art. And, I'm happy to be a partner.

Courage

Courage. An interesting word. Full of charge. Strong and bold. Actually, I'm courageous each day as I exist in the world of surgery modified bodies and anorexic/bulimic individuals. You see, I'm curvy. Round. Chubby, I guess. I'm short. That's the deal. I look wider than I am. Oh, but there I go, justifying what is a natural way of being. Well, it takes courage to be a live Ruben painting.

I would hear all the skinny girls' theories of what to eat, what not to eat, the latest, greatest exercise or combination thereof. For the last year or two, I would bring up the subject so as to avoid hearing it come from them. Oh, but the experts on skinniness would wait for a word or a morsel of food I was ready to consume and then begin with the diatribe. All the while knowing they are on a race with the clock and wrinkles and bulges, themselves.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm pretty. I have beauty inside and out. My heart goes out to those who aren't or don't believe they are. But I'll tell you, I have been working on not paying attention to my tummy or backside as I move through the actions of the day...as a size 12.

There, I said it. Size 12. Can you believe it? At 49 years of age, I am worried about being a size 12? From now on, I am all about being courageous, walking on the beach or by the pool, for all to see what an honestly beautiful menopausal woman can be like.

For too long, women have abused and neglected their natural way of being and it has confused our men. It's confused us. We have little girls looking like their moms. Or is it that their moms are looking like them? We chastise men for dating younger women and yet we cave in with appeasement, surgeries and youthful clothes. Sending mixed signals. It's actually quite pathetic. I know a woman in Minneapolis who is in her forties is so proud of the fact that she shared her 13 year old daughters clothes. I looked at her and saw her joy. Wondered what went wrong for her to want to become a child again. Here's to courage! Here's to being yourself! Here's to being perfect in every way, without edit. Let the true beauty shine through!

Why are there so few good men?

Recently, the front left wheel on my cute little CRV went flat. Desperation was an immediate emotion for me. Helpless feelings grow quickly when one is without transportation. How do I get to my jobsite? What if I need supplies? How am I going to change this thing?

Do I have a jack? was the next question as I read the ops manual from the glove compartment. The answer came quickly. Quicker than I would like to admit. No, but you do have a cell phone!

And so I proceeded to call several friends. Guys. Alas, all too busy to come to my aid. :( I ended up calling my dear friend, my "spiritual father," I like to call him. Always there for me to help me understand life, spiritual and otherwise. Tony, is his name. Tony came through for me! Yay! He helped me to get through most of the changing of the tire. My eighty-year-old friend guided me through the changing of a tire.

Alas, darkness came and I had no choice but to leave the car up on the jack and without a tire on the wheel. Why? You see, the jack was in the wrong place on the car. So there wasn't the proper amount of lift to provide space for the spare to be put on. And, no light. I had to abandon my car. ugh.

But! Alas, my landlords/friends went out and put the flat back on and lowered car. Safe. My friends, Amy and Ray, assured me it was better this way. And they did this and then called me. How nice! (I had been inside my cottage praying that nothing would happen to the car while it was up on the jack). Thanks to Amy and Ray (2 weeks out of surgery), I slept that night.

I'm single. Boy did I feel the negative impact of what that means. Well, the next day Amy and I changed the flat and put on the spare. Flat. My arms went up and quicker than you could say "hey!" I dialed my cell and told a colleague, who will remain nameless, what had happened. He came over straight away and gave me assistance. Yay! He also wanted to get a little somethin' somethin' for his trouble. INAPPROPRIATE! No worries, nothing happened.

It really makes me wonder. Why are there are so few good men. Thank you Tony, Ray and Amy for your efforts and support on my behalf. My CRV thanks you as well. :)

Strange things seen on California Highways, Byways and Freeways!

Recently saw a truck stop in the middle of the road, a guy got out of the passenger side, ran around to the sidewalk (construction site). Grabbed a couple of bags of cement. Threw them in the bed of the truck and drove off.

It took a moment to register: I just saw two guys steal. Cement.

Cement...Really?

:(

A man was walking with his wife. They had a stroller. I rounded the corner and casually looked inside the bonnet of the stroller. It was a dog!

!!!!!Oh! By the way, they were dressed in black and white...so was the dog.

:)

Driving home. Interrupted a dinner with my car. What I thought was a bag of trash turned out to be a hawk and a bunny. The hawk took flight to the nearest tree, watching his dinner hop off to the side of the road. This was the first time I saw irritation in a bird. It looked like it was pissed at my car!

:)

Menopause Moment:

I was driving down a parking a lot, and came upon a cross walk where a guy was waiting to cross. I stopped (phone in my hand, ready to make a call- ear piece in place - which he didn't see). The guy starts walking through the cross walk giving me a dirty look and shaking his head(re: my cell phone in hand - illegal here for hand-helds).

Wrong day for this dude to judge me! I waited until he crossed, smiling the entire time, and when he got to the other side, I honked my horn!

You should have seen him jump! I put my hand to my mouth, tilted my head, raised my eyebrows, and then said, "I'm so sorry!" Giggling, I proceeded down the lot to the street!

That was a fun moment.

From the first bird to the moonlit night

I wake up early each day to hear the first bird tweet. Funny, isn't it? The one thing I accomplish for myself each day. Reassuring that my day is beginning fresh and new that very moment.

The beginning to a day of my making.

My mantra during the day: The Underdog cartoon from the 60's: "Here I come to save the daaaaaaay!" I hear those words differently than intended. Imagine savoring each experience/moment as much as possible. To save them.

At the end of the day, I search out the moon in the sky, note its location. Close the curtains. Snuggle in to the sounds of my owl "who" sits in the neighboring trees.

Remembering my heroic charge into the making of another "super fantastic day."


Peace out, mon ami's.....Frenchie

new life

My nephew, Bradley, become the proud father of two boys today. Thus the impetus for my previous blog. Birthing on the brain. Bradley is a twin. Now the protector/teacher of twins, Bennette and Jayson. My heart has grown. 2 more inches.

Welcome boys! :)

Amber. The beautiful mom of Bennette and Jayson. A great trouper for bringing these two into the world. They came, I hear, right side up and upside down. :) What an interesting beginning!

Hello, Mom are you out there?

My first posting on my first blog. Exciting. A woman of many words. I find it odd, when I attempt to write them down, I have few. Patience, please. I promise to grow.

My latest entertainment: Thinking about the idea that when we are separated from our mothers at birth, we spend the rest of our life trying to get back into the womb. Back to source.

We'll try to get the same feeling we had floating inside. I've learned that other people (boyfriends included) aren't very good "stand-ins." Achievements, titles, and the acquisition of things don't do it either. And, sad to say, sex, chanting and meditation fall short...believe me, I've given them all intentional, focused time and effort.

"mmmmmmommie," I cry out as I'm thinking about this in my car. Highway 5. Sunny San Diego (It's raining right now).

In my heart. The sweet, sarcastic voice of Mom comes through, "Oh, lovie...the door is closed and locked." :)

" 'k." I reply as I barrel down the freeway.... I swerve. Miss a car. Get cursed by the driver next to me.

"Oh grow up!" I shout at the driver. Your mom's not letting you in, either, I thought.

Separation Anxiety stinks.