Collage

Lately, I've been seeing a lot of mixed media projects.  Some of the collages look a little too busy for me but I saw this YouTube video (http://vimeo.com/12756256) and liked the results. I decided to give it a try.

My subject matter was a visit to my friend's cabin in Oregon.  I arranged my reversed photo images (laser printer, regular printer paper) and Oregon encyclopedia pages on an 8 x 10 canvas covered board (purchased at Michael's):

Arrangement

Using matte medium I attached encyclopedia pages to the board, then added color with both acrylic paint and soft pastels:

Background

For some reason, I trimmed down one of the photos and regretted it but was too lazy to print another one.  I brushed matte medium on the front of the photos and applied them to the background face down, using a brayer and whatever else I could find to make sure they were firmly attached:

Adding photos

The hard part was leaving it to dry overnight.  The fun part was removing the paper.  I brushed water over the photographs and slowly began to rub the paper off of the prints.  I used my fingers but on the YouTube video it looks like the guy is using a sandpaper block.  I had to use moderate pressure so I was glad I didn't use stretched canvas because I think it might have warped:

Removing paper

I didn't really like the overall results so I decided it would be my experimental sample, giving me an excuse to try more techniques.  I added some leaves using modeling paste and stencils.  I let the modeling paste dry and then painted the shapes:

Adding and painting shapes

Next time I'll try to simplify the look by using only one photograph with less detail.  I'll also simplify my colors and maybe work a little on scale:

End Result

The whole process was fun and I'll definitely try again.

Resources and other ideas:

http://www.alternativephotography.com/wp/processes/transfers-and-lifts/mixed-media-collage-and-photo-transfer-to-canvas)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJMVwXJv5z8

http://vimeo.com/12756256

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoFSRbW_ZoY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfMq_F-4Hbs&feature=fvwp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB75ZLvLHb8

  

What is Life?

The other day I got into a discussion with a friend about life (deep, huh?).

My friend said that life is so structured and rule-bound, that it is our job as individuals to fight the rules and expectations as much as possible so we don't get pushed into conformity.

I have always thought of life as big and messy and that it's our job as individuals to find a small corner of the world in which to build an organized and ordered space for ourselves.

What do you think?  How do you see the world?  Is it one of rules that you must fight against, or is it one of infinite possibilities that you have to make sense of?

The Process

I've always heard and truly believed that "It's the process not the product" and "It's the journey, not the destination."  However, in our culture (and in my life), that's easier said than done.

When I began taking violin lessons, I imagined myself playing in the local symphony.  When I began playing volleyball I imagined myself being the star on the team.  When I joined www.nanowrimo.org I was going to be Oprah's next book club pick.  Spanish classes were going to make me bilingual, running would draw admiration as I won a 5K, and art classes at the senior center would result in people clamoring to purchase my paintings.

You get my drift.

All of these dreams might have been reasonable if I had been, say, eight years old.  But I began this life-changing journey, searching for my one and true amazing talent, when I was well into my 40s.  I'm an old dog trying to learn new tricks.  That's not to say I don't have some amazing hidden talent.  It's just that at this stage, it might stay hidden.

Last summer, for the first time in at least a year, all four of my adult children were living within a 100 mile radius of me.  My daughter wanted something to hang on the walls of her new apartment, so we all got together and spent a couple of evenings painting with acrylic paints on blank canvas. We are not trained artists.  We are family.  We painted, laughed, talked, ate, and drank.  It has become one of my favorite family memories.

That experience led me to continue painting a couple of times a month with three friends and we have collectively completed seven paintings.  I provide the painting supplies and they provide the munchies.  Whenever we become too critical we remind ourselves that it's all for fun and repeat our mantra: "Don't let your mind sabotage your heart."

I paint until I'm happy with the result, and it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it (although the four of us are incredibly supportive).  I have a small room in our house where I have recently hung my finished paintings.  I don't care who sees them because each one is a reminder of the joy of the experience.

And to test my new attitude, guess what I just brought home.

Angel in the Bathroom

At age 32 I had decided to return to school and was accepted by a local university about 15 miles from my house.  I would begin slowly, taking only one introductory class that first quarter, since I was due to have my third baby in August and school started in September.

On a hot day near the end of summer I took my newborn daughter Anna with me to the university to register.  My oldest son was at school and my middle son stayed with a neighbor.  I toted Anna on a front carrier made from heavy red fleece, and wore a large diaper bag over my shoulder, which contained baby products and registration paperwork.

I was exhausted and my nerves were frazzled.  My newborn was waking up to be breastfed every couple of hours and I wasn't getting much sleep.  I was nervous about going back to school; things like finding my way around campus and knowing where to park had me worried that I had taken on more than I could handle. I wondered why I was putting myself through this.  I could be home with my baby, relaxing and playing with my two year old, waiting to pick up my five year old from school.  But there I was with my tiny baby strapped to my chest, tired and sweaty, waiting in long lines to register for my one class.

I had breastfed and changed Anna in the parking lot when I arrived at the university, hoping that she would sleep until I could feed and change her in the car when I was finished.  After waiting in the first registration line, I realized that Anna's diaper needed changing.  I left the crowded, noisy, room and found a restroom.  I squeezed into a corner next to the sink, put a blanket on the concrete floor and began changing my fussy daughter.  Gorgeous young women breezed in and out with their carefree lives in tow.

I was a selfish mother.  My brand new baby was on the floor of a public restroom.  I tried not to make eye contact with the young coeds as they came and went but felt judged and out of place.  Then a tall woman with dark wavy hair entered the restroom.  She wore a blue skirt and a white tank top and looked to be in her mid 40s.  She smiled and commented on my baby as I squatted on the floor.  She asked if I was a student.  I told her I was registering for my first class that quarter.

"You're doing the right thing," she said to me.  "Your baby will be fine."  She stopped and looked at me.  "Listen," she said, and waited until I looked up over my shoulder at her, "you're doing the right thing."

I took a deep breath.  "Thank you," I said.

I'm No Musician

          I have two articulate, intelligent friends that I'll call John and Jane Doe. One day John told me that he and Jane agreed that public schools teach children how to be losers and failures, and in general make kids feel bad about themselves.  I was flabbergasted because, as John knows, I'm a public school teacher.

          "It's interesting that you and Jane have that opinion when neither one of you have experience in education," I said.

          "What are you talking about?" John was incredulous.  "Both of us attended public schools."

          And I love listening to the cello.

          People who have attended public schools have opinions based on their experiences as students.  They may have positive and negative memories of good and bad teachers.  Those opinions are important and should be part of a discussion on how to improve our public schools.  But changes in the schools shouldn't be based on the opinions of people who have no background in education and no experience in teaching.  Changes should be based on input from teachers themselves, and based on solid research.

          Interestingly, John has told me on other occasions that he couldn't do what I do; that he doesn't know how I do it.  Apparently he does know that I'm doing it all wrong.  To be fair, when I told John that I didn't realize he thought I was producing losers and failures each year, he said I'd misunderstood him.  Hmm.  By the way, John and Jane would describe their own public school experiences as positive, and each has a pretty healthy dose of self esteem.  I'm sure neither one of them would describe themselves as losers. 

Iron Lady

My parents separated and divorced when I was about ten years old.  At first, Daddy visited us on our birthdays and Christmas and we spent weekends at his place at the beach.  But slowly the phone calls and visits decreased, and by the time I was around fifteen years old, he had disappeared.

Mom was left to raise us four kids.  She struggled to make ends meet and I imagine it was exhausting to do everything by herself.  I raised four kids too but I had a husband who helped me.  I don't know how Mom managed, but day after day with no one to help her, she did.

When I was 21 years old I heard that my father had had a stroke.  I traveled south to the hospital and twice went to see him.  I don't remember what we talked about and the visits were short.  But I do remember that I told him I loved him, which wasn't something I said very often.  And he said, "Me too, Bug."  That was the last time I saw my father; he died a few days later.

I'm glad I got the chance to tell my father that I loved him because I did love him.  But it wasn't until I was married and had my own children that I fully understood what a lousy thing he did, abandoning his four kids after the divorce.  I forgive him and I still love him, but he wasn't a very good father.

On the other hand, Mom, who is 88 years old now, is still there for me.  Even though we may get impatient with each other, or hurt each other's feelings, or I might not make the choices she thinks I should make, I know she still loves me.  I know that if I need anything at all I can call her and she will help me.  Her strength has been a safety net for me all of my life.  Thanks, Mom.  I love you.

The Blues

          It was a hot May afternoon when I decided that a Jamba Juice would hit the spot.  I found my Kindle and hopped into Kevin's car, which was parked behind mine in the driveway and drove to the large shopping center a few miles from my house.  I parked in the shade of a big tree, got out and walked away from Jamba Juice and toward Ross.  I passed Sylvan Learning Center, a Christian store, and a fabric store.  I went into Ross and wandered around but nothing caught my eye.  I cut across the sunny parking lot and went into Jamba Juice.  A few minutes later, armed with my Pomegranate Pick me Up I headed back to Kevin's car.  I got out my Kindle but the low battery warning flashed so I closed it and sat in the car under the shady tree with the windows down, drinking my smoothie.  It was a time to relax before going home to feed the dogs and get some work done around the house.
          I had almost finished my Jamba Juice when I heard loud talking and laughing.  I looked around and saw a large woman sauntering slowly across the parking lot, several yards from my car.  I noticed that she looked bald under her brightly colored hat.  I wondered if she was the same woman I used to see around downtown, who had once come into Kevin's wine bar for a glass of wine and had paid with piles of loose change.
          "Hello there," a voice nearer to me said.  I looked over and saw a woman's large sweaty face peering at me through the open passenger window.
          "Hello," I said.
          "I've been watching you for a while all the way from over there," she said, waving her hefty arm toward the back of the parking lot.  "How are you?"
          "I'm fine.  How are you?" I asked, automatically.  I had a sinking feeling that she was either going to ask me for money, or tell me about Jesus.
          "I'm just fine.  I'm not going to ask you for money," she said as if reading my mind.  "I'm just going to ask you to get me some chicken," she said looking over at the KFC.  "I'm so hungry."  She moved her arm from where she rested it on the shopping cart she had brought with her and leaned into the car window until her armpits were propped up by the door frame and her shoulders and head were inside the car.
          "I'm just so hungry.  I want some chicken," she nodded again to the KFC.
          "I just spent my last $5 at Jamba Juice," I told her.  It was true.
          "No you didn't," she exclaimed.
          "Yes I did," I insisted, picking up my empty cup and wagging it towards her.  "I just finished it."
          "You paid $5 for that?"
          I was suddenly embarrassed at my extravagance.  "$4.65," I said as if that was a better price.  "I have some change here that you can have."  I began scraping sticky coins out of the console space next to me, ashamed to feel relief that my purse was tucked under my feet on the floor of the car.
          "Oh man, I'm so hungry," she said again, holding out her hand for the change.  "This isn't enough.  What about back there," she said pointing into the hatchback space.
          "Maybe there's money in here," I offered as I pulled Kevin's leather jacket from behind my seat and began digging into the deep, cool pockets.  Empty.
          "You going on a trip or something?  What's all those suitcases?"  She was looking at Kevin's belongings in the hatchback.
          "My husband's a musician.  That's his equipment."
          "Really?  A musician?  What kinda music he play?"
          I didn't want to say.  "The blues," I said.
          "Oh, in San Francisco?" she asked.
          "No, here in places around town."
          "That right?  What's he play?  What kinda instrument?"
          "Keyboard," I told her.  I was worried she would ask me which songs he played because although I've been to my husband's gigs many times, I never remember any of the tunes.
          "I'm hungry.  Don't you have another dollar somewhere?  How about an ATM card?"
          "Sorry," I lied.  "That's all I have."  I looked at the round face and sweaty forehead.  She had small dark eyes, a broad nose, and that turned-in sort of mouth that toothless people have.
          "I'm so hungry.  I'm just so hungry."
          "I understand," I said, slowly looking away.
          "Well, all right then."  She pushed her body off of the car and leaned back onto the shopping cart.  "I'm just so hungry," she said as she and the rattling cart slowly headed off toward the KFC.  I waited for a minute or so then started the car.  As I drove home, I could hear her voice echoing in my head.  "I'm so hungry."