I keep Death on my mind like a basset hound

I know that earlier I alluded to having a rather bah humbug attitude toward the holidays this year but I never really said why. And I wasn't planning on it in such a semi-public way but right now I just need to write. My Grandpa was suddenly sent to the hospital the week of Thanksgiving. My Dad and I drove out to Idaho Falls as soon as we could and spent a couple of days with him basically to see him alive for the last time because the doctors said he wasn't going to make it. They diagnosed him with bone cancer, the family set him up at a Life Care Center for comfort care and shed some tears. Life suddenly took on a very real and different meaning.

I am a very sensitive person; sometimes too sensitive. Death is hard for me even with being LDS and understanding it all--it's just hard. The thought of his fast-approaching death would hit me frequently and always catch me off guard. Bless my manager's heart at the museum who understood and let me cry for a bit. All the hype of Christmas just didn't do it for me this year; everything seemed like a commercial, a gimmick, just fake. I went through the motions wondering when we'd get that phone call.

Grandpa held on through Christmas and I remember saying, "Well, maybe Grandpa will get to see 2010." He got close. He died at 11:48 am Wednesday, December 30th. My family and I were driving back from a vacation in McCall and had spotty service so we didn't get the news until we got home later that day. My Grandma ended up being the last to find out because she was in the temple when he passed. She said she felt very peaceful and wasn't surprised when my cousin Kristin got to her and told her the news. They spent the rest of the afternoon in my Grandma's place, crying and talking about Grandpa. Grandpa had lost so much weight his wedding ring wouldn't fit his finger anymore so now she wears it. She's such a tiny, precious woman. I so wish I could be like her one day.

At first the thought of bringing in the new year with a funeral sounded so dismal. The drive out to Idaho Falls was very somber and snowy. I couldn't really let myself think about what was happening and not until I saw him in the casket did it start to make a dent. Having all the family there was more than wonderful. It'd been so long since we'd all been together. Hearing my aunt give his life sketch and my father talk celebrating this honest man's life was beautiful. I loved having a specific time and place to actually cry, share emotions, feel love and realize the great effect this man's life had on so many people. Many tears were shed and still will be for a while. I'd never realized before how great a funeral can be when the plan of happiness is understood and how much your testimony can grow.

Right now I can't think of a better way to bring in the new year--as morbid as that might sound to someone who doesn't understand. My family has grown exponentially stronger together because of this instance, this death. Yes I will be tender for a while but it's a good tender. The sadness will subside and the happiness I feel for being able to call this man my Grandpa will remain constant.

There's so much more I need to write but for now I'm going to try to sleep. I'm thankful I have this void to write to. It's just comforting.

spooks

Today was one of those days I wished I had a camera everywhere I went. A great fog has settled on and around Boise creating such beautiful scenes everywhere. I got to drive out to a nearby city to teach art for the last time and the fog had engulfed all the fields, abandoned houses, and leafless trees; it was amazing. I felt like I was in an eerie ghostworld. Fog is so full of mystery and secrets--I've never liked it before but today I sort of fell in love with it.

I wish I had a picture of it so I'll just say it was like this but at least 10 times better. At least.

new year

read this yesterday:

"art is not a handicraft; it is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced"

-Tolstoy

It tore away all the apprehension and self-doubt my last semester of oil painting seemed to instill in me. My professor taught me all the ways you should paint, all the traditional methods and what "looks good" and little by little my yearning to express myself seemed to get tied up, bound and gagged, lef to hang somewhere in my soul.

Since graduation I've been in such a weird way; unsure and not feeling the liberation I thought would have come. I think I'm relearning to breathe. Funny how the right words can make all that difference.

Maybe I'm starting my new year now and skipping Christmas because reading Tolstoy's words and rediscovering my passions feels more like Christmas than the played-out carols on the radio.

Luff

I have recently become re-obsessed with Annie Hall. I love Diane Keaton in it; how squirrely and uncertain she is in the beginning but how at the same time she knows exactly what she wants and goes for it albeit rather bashfully. I love watching her confidence and awareness evolve and develop throughout the film--not in a gradual, linear way but through the timely flashbacks and storytelling of Woody Allen. Comparing her first time singing in a night club to the last shown exudes such beauty and confidence it's hard not to want that sort of unmistakable aura for oneself.

It makes me think of formative relationships I've had; the beginnings, middles and ends of them. I can't help but analyze my past and see where I'm at now in relation to only five years ago and ask myself if I'm where I want to be. I guess I don't really know how to answer that question though because where I am was never where I had anticipated I'd be. BUT I like where I am and I'm working on getting to loving where I am.

I finished reading Brave New World a couple weeks ago and I really enjoyed it. There was a character in it, Bernard, who had all of this potential to be great, take action, be an individual; but, when the moment demanded it he kept faltering back and forth between what he knew he wanted and what he knew was expected. In the end he really didn't do anything and I ended up really despising him I think because I see those traits in myself. I hope I really strive for what I know I want and what I know will make me happy rather than bowing down to the pressures of what I think others may be thinking/expecting. It's hard. I think everyone struggles with it to an extent.

Anyway.

I love Annie Hall. I want some lobster, her whole wardrobe, and black soap.

Bah Humbug

Sorry Christmas. I'm just not that into you this year.

I really hate being cold.

and I really just want to ride my bike.

Maybe it'll hit me in a week or so...

I am working on it. I've been listening to this nonstop and it's starting to help.

Plus I'm making lots of presents so that should help too right?

Geez

I’m in love with the Gee’s Bend quiltmakers. I’ve been to so many museums and looked at modern art thinking this is cool but…so what? So much art produced these days (these postmodern days) seems to fall flat because usually the concepts are so convoluted (lots of big words that when you really think about them are a lot of words for “I really don’t know what this is so you take what you want to from it”). I don’t know—I just can’t connect with any of it. I want to but…it just ends up being a whole lot of trying too hard.

Gee’s Bend on the other hand is something tangible. These quilts truly are pieces of art. Many people have compared them to modernist artists trying to make connections with Mondrian, Rothko, etc. but these women never saw any of these artist’s works; they just quilted what they wanted and it’s beautiful in so many ways. You can feel their stories seep through from the corduroys, jeans, floral fabrics. Gee’s Bend is a community in Alabama rich with its own history and these quilts are embedded with their stories. The women still seem uneasy with the title of “artist” because quilting is just what they do and create. One woman, Louisiana Bendolph (Lou), said when introducing herself that she’s a homemaker with four daughters and when she decides that she’s an artist she’ll let you know.

I got the opportunity to meet with two of these artists, hear their stories, see them work. I cannot even begin to express how amazing it was. Not only do these women quilt but they sing—like angels. Lou said that “singing is like quilting; we do it because it keeps us warm…We sang to have faith; faith to find one more rag, one more piece of fabric to be able to make our quilts.” China Pettway (the other artist) was so full of soul—I don’t know any other way to explain it. When we asked her a question she said, “I just want to sing. Do you know ‘Swing Low’?” We all nodded and she started in with her rich and melodious voice us trailing behind barely echoing her notes. Oh to sing with a black woman. Everyone needs to do it at least once. (I got to twice tonight and I can’t even sing).

I really want to start quilting now. (If it could turn out like this)

All that David Copperfield crap

1. Sorry I've been lacking in blog posts...still getting used to exposing my narcissist side

2. October was amazing

3. I now have a TENTATIVE 4(?) year plan...yikes

4. I was a skeleton for halloween

5. I watched the Exorcist for the first time. It was good.

6. I'm finally selling some stuff

Also: I'm really liking Barb Campbell's work; we sell it in the art museum store. Every time I look at it I want to have a tea party in Wonderland.