2004-5
2002
2001
1999
Friday, April 27, 2007
Some Older Paintings
Thought I'd post some older paintings of mine. It's interesting to me to see the trends over the years.
2004-5
2004-5
Friday, April 20, 2007
That's what religion needs -- more KIMCHEE.
.
Today, on the sixth anniversary of my mother’s death, I had a dream that my mother and I were sightseeing in Rome. We ducked into an old church to take a look inside and noticed a service was going on. We decided to stay, but sat in the back where we could leave discretely.
It was a funny church. The seats in the back were built for “standing room” -- they were fold-down pews at stool height made out of mother of pearl material.
We slid into a row and used our butts to fold down the seating. It was funny, actually, because we couldn’t quite get the hang of getting on these narrow little white planks with our short legs and all of our handbags in tow. But we eventually managed, with much giggling. The seats were surprisingly comfortable.
Then it was time to sing. We opened the hymnal, and sang along to something that seemed like a children’s song. But it had a line about kimchee! I thought, what a strange church to be singing about kimchee!
Then the jovial priest walked around giving everyone the communion, which was in this big copper urn filled with hosts soaked in milk, like a soup. He was wearing a monk’s outfit, like Friar Tuck of Robin Hood, plus an apron, and had the urn balanced on his hip while ladling out the soupy communion. By this point, we were trying to sneak out, and this jolly man started ho-ho-ho-ing about our attempt to leave without getting communion. And again, I thought, what a strange church. So jolly, so casual. I like it.
After I woke up and got on the subway to go to work, I was remembering this dream. I was trying to remember why we were sitting in back on these uncomfortable-seeming high-seated pews anyway, since they were kind of a pain to get onto. And then I remembered: we wanted the flexibility to leave.
Flexibility. Discomfort. Ahhh. If you want flexibility, you have to be prepared for a certain level of discomfort. But then, it may not be that uncomfortable after all, just awkward to get into. Another life lesson from my wise mother.
The thought came as a relief for some reason. So much so that I struggled to keep from openly crying in the middle of the subway car during morning rush hour. And even more so when I was overcome with a feeling of compassion and love for everyone sitting/standing in that subway with me. I thought, these are my people. How amazing they all are, wrapped in their lives, interacting with each other in casual little moments. Like when this elderly black woman smiled with her crinkly eyes at a little girl standing with her father.
I think of other dreams I’ve had about my mother since her death in 2001. The thing I keep thinking about again and again is the dream (maybe more than one) where my mother was trying to tell me something. Always, I woke up knowing she wanted to tell me something, but not knowing what. My brother once had a dream that my mother was trying to tell me something, too, except I was too preoccupied to listen.
I think my mother was trying to tell me to be happy. To remember to be happy, whatever it takes. And to not be afraid to make the choices necessary to be happy in my life.
My mother once told me this:
“I used to strive so hard to be happy, trying to figure it out, trying to get something or someplace, make things the way I thought they needed to be to be happy, and I was never happy. Nowadays, I just sit in front of the window, drink my tea and fold my laundry just so, and I’m as happy as I have ever been.
Remember that if you don’t want to do something, just don’t do it. If you don’t want to be with someone, leave them. If you don’t want to be somewhere, go somewhere else. Simple. No one’s making you do anything except you.”
When you count your remaining life in terms of days, weeks or months, rather than in years, I think you probably see life differently than everyone else. I used to be so close to death while my mother was sick that I knew all this.
Over these last six years, I think I’ve been wrapped up in redefining myself after my mother’s death. First it was all about getting married and going down that road, than it was all about graduate school, and recently it’s been about my next career move. I realized I’d forgotten about simple happiness, about not needing to quantify my existence through achievement.
And yet, I think it’s important for me to be in a livelihood that gives me room to think and be creative, so I have to put some effort into the endeavor. Discomfort.
Today, on the sixth anniversary of my mother’s death, I had a dream that my mother and I were sightseeing in Rome. We ducked into an old church to take a look inside and noticed a service was going on. We decided to stay, but sat in the back where we could leave discretely.It was a funny church. The seats in the back were built for “standing room” -- they were fold-down pews at stool height made out of mother of pearl material.
We slid into a row and used our butts to fold down the seating. It was funny, actually, because we couldn’t quite get the hang of getting on these narrow little white planks with our short legs and all of our handbags in tow. But we eventually managed, with much giggling. The seats were surprisingly comfortable.
Then it was time to sing. We opened the hymnal, and sang along to something that seemed like a children’s song. But it had a line about kimchee! I thought, what a strange church to be singing about kimchee!
Then the jovial priest walked around giving everyone the communion, which was in this big copper urn filled with hosts soaked in milk, like a soup. He was wearing a monk’s outfit, like Friar Tuck of Robin Hood, plus an apron, and had the urn balanced on his hip while ladling out the soupy communion. By this point, we were trying to sneak out, and this jolly man started ho-ho-ho-ing about our attempt to leave without getting communion. And again, I thought, what a strange church. So jolly, so casual. I like it.After I woke up and got on the subway to go to work, I was remembering this dream. I was trying to remember why we were sitting in back on these uncomfortable-seeming high-seated pews anyway, since they were kind of a pain to get onto. And then I remembered: we wanted the flexibility to leave.
Flexibility. Discomfort. Ahhh. If you want flexibility, you have to be prepared for a certain level of discomfort. But then, it may not be that uncomfortable after all, just awkward to get into. Another life lesson from my wise mother.
The thought came as a relief for some reason. So much so that I struggled to keep from openly crying in the middle of the subway car during morning rush hour. And even more so when I was overcome with a feeling of compassion and love for everyone sitting/standing in that subway with me. I thought, these are my people. How amazing they all are, wrapped in their lives, interacting with each other in casual little moments. Like when this elderly black woman smiled with her crinkly eyes at a little girl standing with her father.
I think of other dreams I’ve had about my mother since her death in 2001. The thing I keep thinking about again and again is the dream (maybe more than one) where my mother was trying to tell me something. Always, I woke up knowing she wanted to tell me something, but not knowing what. My brother once had a dream that my mother was trying to tell me something, too, except I was too preoccupied to listen.
I think my mother was trying to tell me to be happy. To remember to be happy, whatever it takes. And to not be afraid to make the choices necessary to be happy in my life.
My mother once told me this:
“I used to strive so hard to be happy, trying to figure it out, trying to get something or someplace, make things the way I thought they needed to be to be happy, and I was never happy. Nowadays, I just sit in front of the window, drink my tea and fold my laundry just so, and I’m as happy as I have ever been.
Remember that if you don’t want to do something, just don’t do it. If you don’t want to be with someone, leave them. If you don’t want to be somewhere, go somewhere else. Simple. No one’s making you do anything except you.”
When you count your remaining life in terms of days, weeks or months, rather than in years, I think you probably see life differently than everyone else. I used to be so close to death while my mother was sick that I knew all this.
Over these last six years, I think I’ve been wrapped up in redefining myself after my mother’s death. First it was all about getting married and going down that road, than it was all about graduate school, and recently it’s been about my next career move. I realized I’d forgotten about simple happiness, about not needing to quantify my existence through achievement.
And yet, I think it’s important for me to be in a livelihood that gives me room to think and be creative, so I have to put some effort into the endeavor. Discomfort.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
This is how nervous tics start.
I don’t know why, but the thought of speaking up in meetings makes my heart race, my mind blank, my hand shake, my voice quiver, and my words tangle. I get self conscious about what people think of me, whether I’ll be understood, or whether I come across as stupid. 
And of course, this nervousness turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy. This used to happen to me in the classroom, too, until my second year when I realized that other people were not necessarily smarter than me, and that I did have something worthwhile to say. It’s a confident thing, I’m sure.
What’s funny is that I used to sing in front of people, and it never really bothered me (much). Sure, I had jitters all the time, but having rehearsed a lot and having another person on stage to focus on, I usually forgot about being nervous after about 5-10 minutes. And for this reason, I usually had my partner start singing first.
To look at me, or even to know me, you wouldn’t think that I have so much insecurity and anxiety about this. I come across (I think) as pretty confident and articulate. And I am if I don’t think too much about it. But if I’m feeling intimidated or out of my league or I don’t know who it is I’m talking to, I become a shrinking violet. I can’t think, let alone express myself and add to a dialogue.
Today, I went into a meeting where I had a lot of comments to make about a few proposed grant initiatives (I work in nonprofit). I had read the docket in advance and had lots to talk about, but usually, this scenario ends in my not saying anything at all.
Again, the funny thing here is that there’s no one in that room that I feel nervous speaking up in front of. I see and work with these people all the time …except for one. The top gun. And I think that’s what it’s about. I think I’m nervous about how she sees me, and the result of this is that whenever I’m in a meeting with her, I don’t say a word. I don’t know why I give a shit, but I seem to.
Anyway, today, I spoke up and made a few comments. I was nervous as usual, and at one point had to calm myself down my doing some meditative head-clearing and physical distraction by tapping on my own arm. I consider it a small victory against myself. Isn’t that funny?
And of course, this nervousness turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy. This used to happen to me in the classroom, too, until my second year when I realized that other people were not necessarily smarter than me, and that I did have something worthwhile to say. It’s a confident thing, I’m sure.What’s funny is that I used to sing in front of people, and it never really bothered me (much). Sure, I had jitters all the time, but having rehearsed a lot and having another person on stage to focus on, I usually forgot about being nervous after about 5-10 minutes. And for this reason, I usually had my partner start singing first.
To look at me, or even to know me, you wouldn’t think that I have so much insecurity and anxiety about this. I come across (I think) as pretty confident and articulate. And I am if I don’t think too much about it. But if I’m feeling intimidated or out of my league or I don’t know who it is I’m talking to, I become a shrinking violet. I can’t think, let alone express myself and add to a dialogue.
Today, I went into a meeting where I had a lot of comments to make about a few proposed grant initiatives (I work in nonprofit). I had read the docket in advance and had lots to talk about, but usually, this scenario ends in my not saying anything at all.
Again, the funny thing here is that there’s no one in that room that I feel nervous speaking up in front of. I see and work with these people all the time …except for one. The top gun. And I think that’s what it’s about. I think I’m nervous about how she sees me, and the result of this is that whenever I’m in a meeting with her, I don’t say a word. I don’t know why I give a shit, but I seem to.
Anyway, today, I spoke up and made a few comments. I was nervous as usual, and at one point had to calm myself down my doing some meditative head-clearing and physical distraction by tapping on my own arm. I consider it a small victory against myself. Isn’t that funny?
Sisyphus Rolling a Ball of Yarn Uphill
I'm weak.
I bought more yarn. I said I wouldn’t do it until I used up more of what I already had, but I couldn’t resist. Too….Many….Sales. Damn you, www.yarn.com. Like some kind of Sisyphean tragedy, the more I knit, the more I buy, and my Finished-Projects-TO-New-Yarn-Bought ratio is sadly pretty much the same as always.
A month or so ago, after listening to a fun podcast called Stash and Burn, I re-jiggered my obsessive yarn/projects spreadsheet to start tracking which year I bought a particular ball of yarn and which year I used it.
The results were interesting for Used VS Purchased in # of Skeins:
32/87 in 2003
43/80 in 2004
54/98 in 2005
72/136 in 2006
And so far for this year:
23/22 in 2007
Boy, did I had a good year last year. I think it was the rush of relief knitting after I finished my grad degree. But I still only managed to use about half of what I bought, the same ratio as in previous years. If you do the math, you’ll see I have around 200 balls of yarn lying around the house. I can't tell if that's a lot or not.
I think my most recent buying spurt triggered an over-stimulation of the “start new projects” hormone, cause in the past couple of weeks, I started a bunch of projects:
• A coat project using two yarns held together (more stash elimination, though not very flattering). Since I’m using green yarn and black yarn, it reminds me of those old IBM screens where you’d have green text on a black field. I’m done with the chest section and onto the waist/hip area, but I think it’s turning out to be a) ugly, and b) too small, so I’m not super motivated to keep going. It’s at this point in the project when I start with the cheering section off to the side in my brain starts chanting: have faith, don’t quit now, it’ll turn out just fine, if you don’t like it give it away, but you’re using up SOOO much yarn. The design is loosely inspired by Domiknitrix’s Mod Coat design (or is it City Coat), though it won’t turn out as flattering, I’m sure.
• My matrix sweater, for which I’m almost done on the torso section. I think it’s kind of hilarious that I’m spending so much time on this very fine gauge sweater with all the intricate lacework (the pretend rips and holes), but that it pretty much looks like an oversized, ratty old sweatshirt. I guess that was the point to some degree, but I’m not so sure it has that I’m ripped, I’m cool, I’m sexy, I’m art look to it.
• Footies to go with my shin-warmers (pictured below). Turns out, I only have enough yarn for everything but the toe section, so I’ll have to find something to use on that section. In the meantime, it’s been sitting in my “to do” bin.
• Simple rectangle shawl using super-bulky straight-off-the-sheep type yarn. This will be the twin to something I made earlier but gave away. (The secret is that, while I make everything with the intention of using it myself, I’m a bit of a pushover if someone asks me for it.) It’s a very simple project, but because the needles are as thick as my big toe, it’s not very pleasant to knit with and it very non-portable. I’m about half-way done.
• Fitted tank top using my new, on-sale, silky smooth, and possibly highly flammable (courtesy of Lime & Violet) bamboo yarn. I knitted up one ball to see how many more balls of yarn I’m likely going to need to finish it. I think it should take about 6-7 balls, making the simple tank $33-38. Not bad, but not a bargain, either. But it feels soooo nice.
I bought more yarn. I said I wouldn’t do it until I used up more of what I already had, but I couldn’t resist. Too….Many….Sales. Damn you, www.yarn.com. Like some kind of Sisyphean tragedy, the more I knit, the more I buy, and my Finished-Projects-TO-New-Yarn-Bought ratio is sadly pretty much the same as always.
A month or so ago, after listening to a fun podcast called Stash and Burn, I re-jiggered my obsessive yarn/projects spreadsheet to start tracking which year I bought a particular ball of yarn and which year I used it.
The results were interesting for Used VS Purchased in # of Skeins:
32/87 in 2003
43/80 in 2004
54/98 in 2005
72/136 in 2006
And so far for this year:
23/22 in 2007
Boy, did I had a good year last year. I think it was the rush of relief knitting after I finished my grad degree. But I still only managed to use about half of what I bought, the same ratio as in previous years. If you do the math, you’ll see I have around 200 balls of yarn lying around the house. I can't tell if that's a lot or not.
I think my most recent buying spurt triggered an over-stimulation of the “start new projects” hormone, cause in the past couple of weeks, I started a bunch of projects:
• A coat project using two yarns held together (more stash elimination, though not very flattering). Since I’m using green yarn and black yarn, it reminds me of those old IBM screens where you’d have green text on a black field. I’m done with the chest section and onto the waist/hip area, but I think it’s turning out to be a) ugly, and b) too small, so I’m not super motivated to keep going. It’s at this point in the project when I start with the cheering section off to the side in my brain starts chanting: have faith, don’t quit now, it’ll turn out just fine, if you don’t like it give it away, but you’re using up SOOO much yarn. The design is loosely inspired by Domiknitrix’s Mod Coat design (or is it City Coat), though it won’t turn out as flattering, I’m sure.
• My matrix sweater, for which I’m almost done on the torso section. I think it’s kind of hilarious that I’m spending so much time on this very fine gauge sweater with all the intricate lacework (the pretend rips and holes), but that it pretty much looks like an oversized, ratty old sweatshirt. I guess that was the point to some degree, but I’m not so sure it has that I’m ripped, I’m cool, I’m sexy, I’m art look to it.
• Footies to go with my shin-warmers (pictured below). Turns out, I only have enough yarn for everything but the toe section, so I’ll have to find something to use on that section. In the meantime, it’s been sitting in my “to do” bin.
• Simple rectangle shawl using super-bulky straight-off-the-sheep type yarn. This will be the twin to something I made earlier but gave away. (The secret is that, while I make everything with the intention of using it myself, I’m a bit of a pushover if someone asks me for it.) It’s a very simple project, but because the needles are as thick as my big toe, it’s not very pleasant to knit with and it very non-portable. I’m about half-way done.
• Fitted tank top using my new, on-sale, silky smooth, and possibly highly flammable (courtesy of Lime & Violet) bamboo yarn. I knitted up one ball to see how many more balls of yarn I’m likely going to need to finish it. I think it should take about 6-7 balls, making the simple tank $33-38. Not bad, but not a bargain, either. But it feels soooo nice.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Zen and the art of mindless chores
Yesterday, I spent all afternoon painting.
Painting my walls. Actually, it was really the front half of one door and one wall panel in the entryway.
I was distractedly watching TV, listening to the rain deluge outside, thinking: “I’m so sick of those dirty walls with the cheap, peeling paint.” Up until now, I haven’t asked my landlord to re-paint because 1) I don’t know how much longer I plan to live in this apartment, and B) Every time I think about asking my landlord to re-paint, I think about how he has the habit of only doing a project until it’s halfway done, then waiting a year to finish it. I thought about having workmen trudge through my just-cleaned apartment with their dirty, wet boots and only half-finishing everything, and then having to get on the phone to the landlady to ask her to yell at her husband, who would then yell at the workmen to finish the job. No thank you.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Armed with a 1-inch oil painting brush (it’s all I had) and a four-year old can of sage green leftover paint (it’s all I had), I sat myself down in front of the door, popped in my ipod, and proceeded to carefully, methodically, peacefully paint my way up the living room door.
It turned out so well that I moved on to the entryway, which has been bugging me for a while. The molding is (I think) kind of pretty, but you can’t actually see it because it’s obscured by the 3” bas relief of flaking paint. And when I say flaking paint, I mean huge shards of years upon years of paint lifting itself off the surface to form hard, sharp, jagged peaks.
Again, I sat myself down in front of the panel and, inch by inch, worked my way up the wall, leaving the chair-rail and baseboard its “original” color. It took hooouuurrs, but it was a really nice way to spend a rainy afternoon. Plus, it looks lovely.
The whole time I was painting, I kept thinking of a book that an old friend of mine kept trying to get me to read (and I never did) called “chop wood, carry water” (or something like that). From what I understand, it could have been called “Zen and the art of mindless chores.”
As mentally agonizing as it had been for me to do my oil painting in the past, I realized how much I really enjoy the motion of the brushstroke. Doing the wall was in some ways similar to how I’m returning to the black and white drawing. Refocusing, paring down to basic motion, feeling of act of drawing without engaging the mind.
So my weekend art endeavor was…my door.
Painting my walls. Actually, it was really the front half of one door and one wall panel in the entryway.
I was distractedly watching TV, listening to the rain deluge outside, thinking: “I’m so sick of those dirty walls with the cheap, peeling paint.” Up until now, I haven’t asked my landlord to re-paint because 1) I don’t know how much longer I plan to live in this apartment, and B) Every time I think about asking my landlord to re-paint, I think about how he has the habit of only doing a project until it’s halfway done, then waiting a year to finish it. I thought about having workmen trudge through my just-cleaned apartment with their dirty, wet boots and only half-finishing everything, and then having to get on the phone to the landlady to ask her to yell at her husband, who would then yell at the workmen to finish the job. No thank you.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Armed with a 1-inch oil painting brush (it’s all I had) and a four-year old can of sage green leftover paint (it’s all I had), I sat myself down in front of the door, popped in my ipod, and proceeded to carefully, methodically, peacefully paint my way up the living room door.
It turned out so well that I moved on to the entryway, which has been bugging me for a while. The molding is (I think) kind of pretty, but you can’t actually see it because it’s obscured by the 3” bas relief of flaking paint. And when I say flaking paint, I mean huge shards of years upon years of paint lifting itself off the surface to form hard, sharp, jagged peaks.
Again, I sat myself down in front of the panel and, inch by inch, worked my way up the wall, leaving the chair-rail and baseboard its “original” color. It took hooouuurrs, but it was a really nice way to spend a rainy afternoon. Plus, it looks lovely.
The whole time I was painting, I kept thinking of a book that an old friend of mine kept trying to get me to read (and I never did) called “chop wood, carry water” (or something like that). From what I understand, it could have been called “Zen and the art of mindless chores.”
As mentally agonizing as it had been for me to do my oil painting in the past, I realized how much I really enjoy the motion of the brushstroke. Doing the wall was in some ways similar to how I’m returning to the black and white drawing. Refocusing, paring down to basic motion, feeling of act of drawing without engaging the mind.
So my weekend art endeavor was…my door.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Cliche, but it works.
You know that song "Breathe" by Jewel. And you know all those yoga tapes out there that constantly remind you to breathe and be present. And all those shows and self-help books about mindfulness and bliss and being present. Sometimes, it's just too much for my cynical, wise-ass self to handle, and I just want to say ENOUGH! Those terms have become a cliche!
You see, the real problem is that I buy it all. The breathing, the mindfulness, the bliss, blah, blah, but the language of it is sometimes embarrassing to me. Like I'm spouted an Oprah-fied term or something. It sounds so privileged to me. That we as a society (me included) all have too much time and money and have become so spoiled that we need help remembering how to live as if we have none of those things.
Last night, I went to bed really early (for me), and so woke up earlier than usual, around 6:30. I was about to go through my normal routine when it occurred to me that I have time to do a little drawing. I had had some interesting dreams last night and it made me feel particularly creative. The dream was about meeting drug dealers by the beach in the middle of the night, watching a stoned Whitney Houston get beat up for not paying drug money, flying over the beach, meeting up with some folks from school and taking a walk through town, then going to a conference with my boss and staying at the grossest Holiday Inn ever. I've had more creative dreams than this in the past, but for some reason, I woke up feeling connected this morning.
So I set to drawing. I started with the symbol for music then worked outward, thinking about how coral attaches itself to a structure, then builds outward, piece by piece. And how, in the coral, there were smaller nooks that could stand on their own, but they also formed a whole, kind of like the body.
And so I drew this:
(detail)
You see, the real problem is that I buy it all. The breathing, the mindfulness, the bliss, blah, blah, but the language of it is sometimes embarrassing to me. Like I'm spouted an Oprah-fied term or something. It sounds so privileged to me. That we as a society (me included) all have too much time and money and have become so spoiled that we need help remembering how to live as if we have none of those things.
Last night, I went to bed really early (for me), and so woke up earlier than usual, around 6:30. I was about to go through my normal routine when it occurred to me that I have time to do a little drawing. I had had some interesting dreams last night and it made me feel particularly creative. The dream was about meeting drug dealers by the beach in the middle of the night, watching a stoned Whitney Houston get beat up for not paying drug money, flying over the beach, meeting up with some folks from school and taking a walk through town, then going to a conference with my boss and staying at the grossest Holiday Inn ever. I've had more creative dreams than this in the past, but for some reason, I woke up feeling connected this morning.
So I set to drawing. I started with the symbol for music then worked outward, thinking about how coral attaches itself to a structure, then builds outward, piece by piece. And how, in the coral, there were smaller nooks that could stand on their own, but they also formed a whole, kind of like the body.
And so I drew this:
(detail)
As usual, somewhere in the middle, I started thinking those all-too-familiar thoughts that are so paralyzing. The thought that what I was drawing was stupid. That it was not good enough to show to people. That it was trite, illustrate-y, corny, pat. Not artsy enough. That it was nothing to be proud of.
When I realized what was going on, I tried arguing with myself, pushing back. You know, the usual. Then, I thought, maybe all this meditation, Buddhist stuff I've been learning could be useful here. So I tried to clear my mind. Breathe. Be Mindful. Only focus on the here and now, on what this line wants to be, and how that area of charcoal feels. And soon, the negativity was just a soft murmur in the background. Progress, at last.
I was able to finish the drawing, feeling good. Excited about having done a drawing, and looking forward to the next one.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Knitting for the Size Challenged
My friend Lillian demanded that I make her a sweater for her birthday. She told me this two days before her birthday. So I did what I could:
This was actually my second attempt at a Lillian sweater. The first one (below) didn't say "Lillian" enough.
The first tiny sweater I made. I like the beaded yoke. My other friend, Julie, an expert sewer (so-er, not su-er--haha), LOVED this one, so i gave it to her. She said she was going to make a doll to fit into the sweater, which would be AWESOME.
This was actually my second attempt at a Lillian sweater. The first one (below) didn't say "Lillian" enough.
The first tiny sweater I made. I like the beaded yoke. My other friend, Julie, an expert sewer (so-er, not su-er--haha), LOVED this one, so i gave it to her. She said she was going to make a doll to fit into the sweater, which would be AWESOME.
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