Unpacking The Evolution of Learning and Mastery of the Creative Act

It’s nearly ten weeks since I returned from Spain. That first night, with my essentials... contacts and glasses in my purse… I left my suitcase unopened, turned on the tv to missed episodes of The Good Wife and after twenty-five hours of being up, went to sleep in my own bed. Four hours of jet lag later, I woke and began to unpack the trip.

The bag exploded all over my living room with sock and underpant shrapnel everywhere. Laundry was folded and put away before the end of the day. I refilled my pallets with paint, my board with watercolor paper and repacked my easel, tripod, brushes, clips and other tools into my backpack ready for the next outing.

Between loads of wash and calls with family, an impromptu lunch for four of us on my patio that included a couple bottles of wine, a salad bar salad and a rotisserie chicken, I’d told the headlines of my trip four times. Each opened pockets with souvenirs of ideas still to uncover… traveling alone... with a group, the meaning of art and painting, unscheduled time and talent, my talent.   

I loved the trip. I learned so much from the leader, Timothy J. Clark. I'm aware now of how much I need to learn about the art world and how it works. His presence, knowledge, accomplishments are driving me to learn more. 

Since then, I’ve taken a figure drawing class, which Tim highly recommended for me to learn to draw accurately. Lucky me, I stumbled on the right teacher. Did you ever see a painter hold up a brush and seem to measure? That's about accuracy. The first thing Stuart Fullerton gave us in his class was a stick to measure and check to make sure the figure on the paper aligned with the figure we saw. 

For any trained artist reading this, it must sound, Duh. It is. But I now know I want to learn the fundamentals, not just paint because it feels good to paint. That's what I really learned in Spain. I don't want  a park district understanding of painting and art. Tim opened my eyes to the difference, though there is nothing like getting lost in painting. For me, when I'm lost it it, it's an expansion of that moment when I hit the water when diving or the minutes after an O. And, then, the thinking starts again and I wish the colors weren't as muddy or the lines a little straighter or whatever. 

I'm committed to getting in my 10,000 hours, so I'm using up ink, paper, paints and panels daily. In the past week, I did a pen and ink at Wrigley Field and painted at the Emily Oaks Nature Center in Skokie. I've sketched at the Historical Society Gardenin Glencoe, along the Lake in Highwood, on the train, as well as a scene of a pine tree and ball field lights that I see from the platform every time I take the train. I've taken that same picture more than 60 times, in my own OCD Monet way to watch the shadows and position of the sun throughout the year. 

After lunch that first Sunday, after my company left,  I threw my backpack in the car and did a quick painting by The Lake. I was up again the next morning when I heard about dense thick fog and went back to the same spot. In the ten weeks since, I made a switch from watercolor to oils. I've taken two, two-day plein air workshops, one from Stuart another from Errol Jacobson and a one day program from Don Yang during an Urban Sketchers of Chicago Workshop.  I join the weekly Plein Air Painters of Chicago through the Palette and Chisel most Saturdays and try to sketch daily. 

At some point, I will find my voice in my art.  I have a pile of watercolor paintings seven inches thick that I've done over the last couple years. There is not one in that pile that I would show anyone... or, that i like. Something's happened though with using oils. In my own estimation, I've ascribed to the Cub's Coach mantra, "Try not to suck today." I'm making progress. I figure I am about a quarter of the way to the 10,000 hours. My oils don't suck and my vacation is still with me. 

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This is another in what is becoming a series on creative practice. The earlier ones were written over the last fifteen months and speak specifically to what I've encountered and learned, but, I suspect that nearly all my posts are about my own creative process. 

Self Confidence and the Uphill Climb of Learning a New Craft

Dabbling is my Creative Process

Cauliflower Wraps - A Paleo Adjustment for Brain Health

Since June of 2013, I have rarely swerved from regularly eating a paleo diet. In the first month, the hand and foot pain I'd endured stopped. I realized it as I unpacked for my writing workshop in Taos and saw that I didn't pack Advil. I haven't needed it since. During that time since, I lost more than 60 pounds and I have energy... every day. And, every day I am grateful that my chiropractor, who'd just completed a six month nutrition education program recommended that I try an anti-inflammatory diet. She told me, if you need a name for it, call it Paleo with no dairy, grain, sugar or legumes. A week or so later, still aching every day and every night, I committed to a week of cold turkey (so to speak) Paleo. Three years later... why would I go back?

I won't but I have made an adjustment recently. Do you have word-fiinding issues? Do you forget names of people and things that you've always known? Do you ever forget something that happened the day before? Ok, I know it's only me that this happens to, so when I learned about North Shore University Health System's Center for the Brain headed (so to speak) by Demetrius Maragonore, MD, located at Glenbrook Hospital, I made an appointment.

Fortunately, I learned after a rigorous assessment that even though this memory stuff only happens to me, it's normal and not dementia or Alzheimers or Parkinsons. Part of the process included a discussion of my exercise and nutrition. I learned I woefully under exercise, they recommend 7 days, 30 minutes of sweat. And, they increased my intake of B and D vitamins.

As for my diet, Dr. Maraganore said he only needed me to adjust a couple things. Ominously he said, "Are you willing to make a change?" I nodded yes and might have said, "sure," I don't remember. "Ok, can you drink red wine instead of white?" I love this man!!!

All other adjustments pale (so to speak) to that one, but he told me I should drink more water, three times a week, eat a combo of garlic, tomato, onion and basil for the lycopene, and add legumes. That's been the most difficult, knowing that they also have an inflammatory aspect to them.  I'm compliant, but I eat them sparingly. edamame here and there and hummus.

This recipe was created in view of Necessity is the Mother of Invention. I needed to eat the cauliflower noodles I'd made for another dish that didn't get made.

The noodles take ten minutes to prepare and an hour to bake. Once they are made and cooled, the wraps take as long as you need to slice avocado and assemble the other ingredients... a couple minutes.

Cauliflower Wraps

Cauliflower Noodles
1 Head of cauliflower shredded or chopped fine
3t Herbs - Italian seasoning
1 t salt
2 eggs

Steam the cauliflower to soft but not mushy, squeeze out any liquid. Add seasonings and eggs. If it's too hot you'll have scrambled eggs so let the cauliflower cool a bit.

Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper or silicone mat. I used a slotted spoon and scooped the cauliflower mix onto the mat. Working to reduce the amount of liquid, I kept the container of cauliflower mix on an angle to let the moisture run down and I squashed the mash on the spoon to get the last drops out. Spread the mix evenly on the pan and cut dividing lines every two and a half to three inches to make lasagna-like noodles. Bake 350 degrees, 55-60 minutes. They should be browned and still soft.

I wrapped mine in the parchment paper and stored them in the fridge for a day before using them.

The Wrappings
Lemon Hummus
Avocado
Spinach
Sprouts

Spread the hummus, add three slices of avocado at one end, sprinkle sprouts on top and spinach have way down the noodle. Roll the noodle starting at the end with the avocado. I cut them in have so I had  two rolls from each noodle.

Anyone eating Paleo learns quickly that when you don't eat crackers, chips and breads, you have fewer vehicles to get other foods like guacamole, salsa and almond butter into your mouth. I get tired of eating a pile of vegetables with some meat on top. The Cauliflower Noodles make a tasty vehicle for sandwich fixings, whether hummus is schmeered or not.

The Evaporating Moistures of Snow Globes and Me

Last week at an antique mall, I saw a collection of snow globes, all with half of their moisture evaporated. Trees, spires and animal heads rose above the waterline. I woke up this morning thinking  about them and that's kind of how I feel some days at this age. And, I am not sure of the meaning of having my head above water.

Dating after 60 - A Social, Intellectual, Spiritual and Physical Experience

I made my bed, then made my coffee all the while thinking about this man I’ve been out with four times. Lunches, walks, dinner, antiquing, kissing, caressing, making out, no sex, so to speak. As I pulled up the comforter, I thought of the lively and thoughtful conversations, as I fluffed the pillows, I thought of the no sex, so to speak, and, as I made coffee, a sense of loneliness rushed through me. In a moment, the fun, the pheromones and the rudeness of reality collided.

My reality contains the years of finding plumb emotionally after ill-fated relationships, righting myself financially from near-bankruptcy, finding comfort in my independence and contentment in my interests. I live intentionally. I pay attention to and regularly assess the elements of wellbeing… my spiritual-creative, physical, social, intellectual, emotional, financial wellness. I say this to make a case that I work from my head about my heart… except, when it comes to dating, which does not fit neatly into any element of wellness. 

The loneliness is the chasm between my intentional investment in being whole without needing someone else, and wanting someone else to share my investment. 

Talking relationshipping with Ashley, my sage, thirty-two year old hairdresser, she advises me to be myself.  After sixty-four years, however, there is so much of myself to be! And, to connect myself with someone who, (must be) equally as full of a life and interested in sharing their investment in themselves, exponentially compounds the amount to be unsheltered. I find myself exhausted in the very idea, yet more wanting as more is revealed, and less capable as I realize the extent of the challenge I've created. 

My extrovert social self is gleeful in meeting new people. My spiritual is fed by learning more and deepening intimacy. With curiosity, the intellectual continues to probe and find connections and meaning... more intimacy. The physical offers stamina, connection and in some cases, a sexual response; and that god-damn-it, throws the whole, well intentioned, intellectual thing off kilter. 

The chasm narrows and deepens as tectonic plates shift. I started the oatmeal.

Bone of Arc and the Stories that Help Us Understand the World

As a staunch Catholic, when I was eleven, I chose for my confirmation name Joan of Arc, because she had a horse. I've read and watched her story since in many versions, my favorite, Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc,  a translation by Jean Francois Alden of the memoirs of Louis de Contes, her page. In fact, Mark Twain wrote Recollections under the Alden pseudonym as a serial story for Harpers, from the perspective of a fictional writer about a fictional character serving Joan of Arc. My second favorite is Bone of Arc starring the famous terrier, Wishbone.

Detail has never been my strong point. History.... I get the gist.

Since that slap on the cheek from the bishop, I've grown to appreciate Jean d'Arc for her leadership, her loyalty and her steadfast faith... all on a horse. When my son did his university junior year abroad in Rouen, as his patron, I packed my valise and along with my sister journeyed to France to visit. We toiled over espresso and croissants in cafes, and wine, baguettes and cheese in other cafes, while he toiled in his oenology class. 

Late, one grey afternoon, sipping a red at a table outside overlooking a church with an imposing cross, out of place with its modern lines, we learned we were actually looking at the exact location my patron saint was burned at the stake. The tight square of buildings surrounding that place, made it easy to imagine the din of the crowds that witnessed and cheered her demise. Last summer, once more astonished at how the dots connect, I sat through a presentation at the Smithsonian in DC, celebrating Julia Child's 100th birthday, I learned that she sat in the window of the cafe a few feet from where we sat then, overlooking the same scene, without the church, and decided to teach women to cook French.

The subtleties are not lost on me. Eight years ago, I wrote a short, fanciful story, Embers,  (posted below in the previous blog) about the person who cleaned up after the pyre that took Jean d’Arc's life. I admit, I did no research for the tale except remembering the books I'd read, the videos I'd watched over the years, what I gleaned from the tour of the jail that held her and that long glass of wine in the square where her execution took place. The story describes my imagination of how they strapped her to a post with leather straps, a reluctant man with a leprous disease sent to deal with the ashes, then freed and cured in a JOA miracle. Though the movies show her eyes toward God, none have shown a montage of logistics. I made them up.  

In the writing group, the number of minutes each person gets to comment on a story is based on the quantity of people reviewing and divided by the quantity of manuscripts. Usually a strident timekeeper metes out the typical 2 or 3 minutes. Reviews cover logic, grammar, word choice and ideas to improve the story. No matter how many times I put mine through the ABC grammar reviews on line, my stories cause battles among grammarians about comma usage… as you might surmise. The evening I submitted Embers for review three people pulled me aside on the way to the Celtic Knot, the usual post-group watering hole, to make a personal comment about my Joan of Arc story.

Jeff, a psychiatrist who wrote world history thrillers, told me the story was about France and England and I needed to add more political intrigue. Rob, a retired geology professor explained that she’d never be bound in leather, it would burn through; they would have used a form of chainmail. He also told me how bone shards might be left under the chainmail. Mindy, who I first met the year before as Seth, told me the story was about a transgender individual and that theme would make my story relevant.  I learned two important lessons from this experience: People use filters when they read, no matter what the writer intends.  And, writing groups are great, but every comment is filtered and a writer must, in the end, be clear and true to their purpose. (OK, I've learned that a million other ways too, but that evening cemented the learning.)

After posting the story in the previous blog, I read the history of burning people at the stake and felt sick and wondered whether I should remove the post. A while later, before I sat down to write this post, I lit a candle. My long-nose lighter wouldn't light, so I struck a match on a box that I'd picked up at a fancy restaurant. The wick of the candle in the jar stood five inches down from the top, and I could barely get my fist into it. I burned my thumb. Oww. I can't imagine the minds that thought up the torture of burning people alive. 

Joan of Arc provokes discussion. Her story is compelling, whether told by historians, theologians, famous comic writers who thought it best to write under a pseudonym or Jack Russel Terriors. I don't think I am cut out to be a martyr, though some may say I already act it.  I've tried to emulate her leadership and commitment to an ideal. As a preteen, the possibilities of leadership excited me. I grew up to lead a company instead of an army, no doubt with some subtle nudge from my patron. In choosing between paint swatches for our offices, there was no doubt, when down to the final choices in selecting "Maid of Orleans" to surround us.

My favorite but long gone gift from confirmation was a statue with Joan in armor, holding the flag, on a white stallion. Back in those days, we were told that only the good die young. I like that she was a bad ass then. My solace is that I heard I should expect to be a badder ass the older I get. 

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