How Not to Win Friends

There are plenty of instruction manuals on how to win friends so I thought I would write one on how NOT to make friends.  I speak from years of research so I feel as if I am quite an authority on the subject.  It certainly helps to be an introvert.  People may laugh when they hear me say that I am one because I am a compulsive talker.  The two are not mutually exclusive:  I am a communicative, overly-analytical, cerebral, closet introvert.  I have always been taught, and know from life's experience, that one must be a friend to make a friend.  But, if you are sure you want to go to the next level, just follow these simple steps.

 1. Make sure your life and work are completely consumed with people in the public sphere. For instance, until last year, my life consisted of working in retail and teaching and, as such, I received all the social stimuli that I could process (and then some) from my work.  Also, make sure that you spend most of your evenings involved in these activities so that you can't even imagine "going out" or inviting folks "in".  Instead, you stumble home at 9:30 or 10 PM on average, four nights a week, satisfied but exhausted.

2. Ensure that your life is so busy that you LITERALLY (and I do mean "literally" literally) find yourself running from task to task.

3. Invite your aged parents to live with you.  Spending "quality not quantity" time with one's parents uses up any "spare time" you may have.

4. Slowly disengage yourself from your work, becoming more and more involved in the caregiving of your aging, ill parents, until it is all you do.  This is a useful tool in that you always have an excuse for not being able to go out or have friends in.

5.  Nurse your parents in your home as they die.  This is the best way to lose touch with the few acquaintances you have and makes it almost impossible to stay in touch with former students or associates.

There you have it!  Simple, isn't it?  I know not everyone has the advantages that I have had but I am confident that with a few modifications, you TOO can learn how to not make friends in five easy steps.

GOOD LUCK!

Life with Poppa

It was a year ago, to the day, when Poppa's radiation was began. Today we found out that not only is the cancer growing again but it is very active.  

It had been bothering Pop for a long time, but being a typical male of his generation, he didn't mention it to anyone. Well, actually, he DID complain of chest pains that, it turns out, were radiating from this mas. Several times over the last two years Poppa has been rushed to the hospital with these symptoms which were mimicking heart attack symptoms.  When the connection was finally made, we were sent scurrying to a surgeon who removed as much of the mass as he could, but left what was attached to the chest wall.  The biopsy resulted in the diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma.

41 trips to the radiologist.  Eight and a half weeks (one half week off for rest) of daily trips to the cancer clinic. Pop and I would head out in all types of weather, enjoying the time together in the car, stopping to do errands on the way, called it our "adventures."

O my, what a year!  So many life-altering events have taken place in the last 12 months.  So many, in fact, that I had to write it down, fearing that no one would believe me.  I don't know how many trips we made to the hospital.  Starting with Pop's lumpectomy, followed by radiation, weeks of kitchen remodeling, Mom's emergency surgery which caused her heart failure and move into hospice care, closing our studio (Tim packed it all up by himself as I was caring for Momma) and emptying it with no place to move it to, Mom and Pop's ranch in Alabama selling and Tim and I going to get their stuff, moving our renter out of the cottage, renovating the cottage into our studio and moving into it, waves of relatives coming to spend time with Momma during her last days, Mom's passing July 26, and after her cremation we hurried to Alabama for the memorial before my brother Bud moved to Arizona, Poppa had cataracts removed from both eyes and a cancer removed from his left eyebrow (turned out to be squamous cell also) and extensive repair to his brow, and lastly, during a follow up for that procedure, the cancer on his right eyelid was found, biopsied and the basal cell carcinoma that was removed was even larger than the cancer on his eyebrow and required extensive skin grafting and reconstruction.  

Pop has endured it all with grace.  He misses Momma, his life partner of 68 years, but hasn't grieved inordinately or fallen into despair.  It has aged him, changed him and worn him out.  At least when Momma was alive he had a purpose which was to look after her and spoil her, as he always had done. Now he lacks purpose. The once formidable, robust man is frail.  He is still mostly independent but needs me to make sure he gets his meds and checks his blood sugar and injects his insulin.  I make his meals and encourage him to eat because he has so little appetite. He leans on me when we walk and depends on me for his companionship. Recently I've noticed that he's made the cognitive leap from being the man in charge to the one being cared for.  In all of this he says he is as happy as can be expected, given the circumstances.  He says he could never have gone through it all if he hadn't been here with us.  We still see flashes of his lightning wit. 

In the morning we take Pop to the oncologist to decide what, if any, treatment he will pursue in regards the tumor growing under his arm.  As it is, it presses on nerves which cause him intense pain that radiates from under the arm across the chest, mimicking heart pain.  We manage the pain now, but know not what will be required when the tumor grows.  The plastic surgeon has tried to repair the damage caused by the cancer on his face, but his appearance is drastically altered.  What will be required to stop the outrage of cancer growing in this 89 year old body?  How does one make the choice to poison the cancer with drugs,knowing that the side effects might potentially sicken him to death but at the same time, how can one choose to not fight back, knowing that if he doesn't he will surely die of it, not to mention the increasing pain? 

More and more often I find Pop sitting alone in his living room without the television on, no newspaper in his lap, head down.  I think he is praying.  He doesn't talk about his faith but he is calm and prepared.  I know he is battling despair, as am I, come to think of it. Yesterday I read in Psalm 46 that "God is our refuge and strength and a very present help in trouble."   We need your help, Lord, this day. Bless my Poppa.

  

  

Measure of Success

I often wonder what film stars experience when they encounter images of themselves in the movies they have made.  I feel a sort of pity when I see them as they appear today compared to their younger selves, frozen in perpetual beauty or virility.  Some become recluses, refusing to be seen in their decrepitude. Others spend fortunes on plastic surgery, refusing to accept the inevitable.  Their lives are lived in reverse.

You don't have to be a famous beauty to get depressed when you look at old photos of yourself. Anyone can feel a sense of loss for their own youth, well spent or otherwise. I feel a definite sort of pity for my younger sister, nine years my junior.  She has this continual reminder before her (me) of how she will be looking in about a decade!  Poor dear!!!  Those of us with Scotch-Irish complexions that have spent years in the sun do NOT age gracefully!!!

Painters have reminders of their past everywhere in their works hanging on the wall. Are the paintings which I did in my younger years better than what I am doing now?  Certainly if I use the ruler of financial success, I see myself as failing.  I used to sell a lot more than I do now.  If I rate my growth through the mastery of draftsmanship or technical skills, it might be a draw.  But, if I measure my success as an artist by the ability to paint from life, instead of photography, I think I'm miles ahead.  If I count the ability to paint a la prima, directly, without elaborate under painting, I am pleased with that. If I take into consideration my increasing ability to capture life-like skin tones, that is also progress.

I am not certain if I am a better painter but I am pleased with little steps of success.  Being a self-taught artist,  I haven't gone through the exercises that most artists have been schooled in.  So when I diverge from painting people to paint a landscape or a still life, I am thrilled!  Because I learned to paint people first and apples later, that is progress to me.

Now I'm doing "genre" paintings.  My brother has been bugging me for years to combine his expertise in western horsemanship, tack and lifestyle with my love of horses into creating some authentic Western Art. I have painted my first ever cow portrait!  Actually, it's a young bull (see earlier blog.)  I am just thrilled with the way it turned out.  The piece I am working on right now is three riders in an Arizona landscape.  I've done a careful under-painting so that I could get all the legs in perspective, looking believable.  As I model the forms in paint, my knowledge of horses come slowly rising out of the deep recesses of my brain, like a remembered language, long unused.  

Artists have it all out there, exposed and laid bare for people to see, much like movie stars.  How will you judge me?  Do you see me pushing against formula?  Am I gaining or just treading in place?  Can you see my struggles with personal expression and artistic integrity? Is my work relevant or passe'?

I consider this lovely little study (above) a success... Alie posed in costume as the Girl with a Pearl Earring.  I started it in the live session Tuesday night and finished it from a photo in a few hours Wednesday. It's not my "best" but it really works for me.  Hope I'm living my life forward, not in reverse!

Artist's Block

I can't do anything. It feels like not being able to feed myself or forgetting how to walk. It's awful. I laid out my pallet, loaded up a brush with paint and brought it to the canvas and nothing happened. No shading, no contour, no values: just paint. I manipulated clay and it never became an arm or a nose or anything other than mud. My hands have betrayed me, my eyes do not see. I am bereft.

I question everything. Why do I bother? What does it all matter? Who cares if I make art? My art doesn't measure up anyway. I think I'll throw my paintings in the garbage or burn them. Smash my sculpture and stomp on it.

It fills me with despair. I blame myself, my husband, my bank account, my students, everything. What is wrong?

Am I tired? Am I empty? Have I given all and left nothing for myself? Have I failed to nourish my body, my spirit, my mind? Do I need to sleep? Walk? Play with the dogs? Swing on the hammock?

I'm going home now. I'm going to take a nap and sip a beer and swing on the swing and call my momma and play with the dogs and wish Isaac a happy birthday and watch a Woody Allen movie and sleep late in the morning and go to church and spend the rest of the weekend praising God for all his many many gifts. And maybe next week try it again.