You Can Call Me Gwen

ICAD Challenge

 

 

I've heard from quite a few of you Dear Readers who are planning to start the ICAD challenge tomorrow and I'm really glad.

I'm also pretty wigged out.

We were challenged to create a title page this week and, per usual, I got totally spooked and freaked out about it all.

Do you ever hear the voices?

"You can't do anything. You don't have any talent. Who are you kidding? You're going to embarrass yourself. Let the real artists do art." 

Et cetera, et cetera, and I do mean ET CETERA.

This idea of having to perform perfectly the first (and every) time I try my hand at something wedged itself pretty tightly in my brain very early in my life and I'm still waging war against that lie.

All this resistance keeps me from doing art most of the time, which is precisely why I decided to commit myself to this challenge. 

I want to use my 61 index cards to try roughly 61 things I've never tried before and enjoy the process.

That sounds almost impossible to me, but...God.

So, please pray for me, Dear Readers, as I strive to keep going and keep it real.

For now, eye will sign off with my EyeCAD title card...

 

 

...which is resting against a big stack of books from which I plan to take my art exercises.

I will not be doing them perfectly, but I will be doing them.

Anyone care to join me?

  

 

"Art is the only way to run away without leaving home." Twyla Tharp

I am taking the "2015 ICAD Challenge" being offered over at Daisy Yellow and I'm inviting all of you Dear Readers to join me.

You can read about the challenge by following the above link, or you can start with this link for FAQ's about it.

It is NOT a competition and it does not require a big layout for art materials; the idea is just to DO something creative on, or with, a 3 x 5 index card every day for 61 days, beginning June 1, 2015.

I hope you'll follow the links and the reading will inspire you to take the challenge.

Please leave a comment to let me know if you're going to participate.

We'll run away together.

Monster Mash

 

 

 

Little Mr. Fox is celebrating his second birthday here on Saturday and I am using it as an excuse to make some games for the grandshoots to play when they visit.

I'm always hoping to use things up and spend no money, so I started with a little 'research' on the web, and decided the first game would be a "Feed the Monster" bean-bag game.

I had some help from Little Man putting the primer on a scrap piece of particle board from the garage, and then used a giant Sharpie to draw the outline of the monster Miss Helping Hands wanted me to use (which she found at Candyland Studio).

The grandshoots helped color the monster using some of the craft paint which has been lingering in my studio for years.

 

 

This afternoon, I drilled holes at the corners of the monster's mouth for inserting the jig saw blade and then used the saw to cut out the entire mouth.

A very quick sanding of the cut edges, followed by coloring with the giant Sharpie, came next.

Fabric glue and cheapo craft felt came into play next.

Teeth were cut and attached like this...

 

 

...and a large rectangle of black felt was glued to the back of the board just above the mouth.

Because I wanted to be able to set up this game anywhere (instead of having to prop it against a fence or wall) but it also needed to be flat for storage, I used a 3" hinge to attach another piece of scrap wood to the top of the back to support it sandwich-sign style.

It was sturdy enough that it didn't budge when we tossed bean-bags at it, but I was still concerned it might fall on a small person who leaned on it while retrieving bean-bags, so I was happy to find the locking hinges, which hadn't worked for the fold-down art desk I built, were the perfect solution.

 

 

We spent no money and we used up some stuff.

The monster is now ready to be fed.

 

 

 

 

Alas, we have no dried beans in the house with which to fill the bean-bags.

 

 

When life gives you lemons...

It matters.

Dear Diary,

This morning, after getting all my supplies loaded up and my work clothes on, I realized that it would probably be a kindness to my niece/client (who has three young children and a baby) if I didn't show up for work as early as I had planned, so I threw on a jacket (in May!?) and set out for a brisk and pared down version of one of my walks on the mean streets.

As I walked, I began talking to God, offering prayers of thanksgiving for legs that still work, a new day, the rain we've had, my family members, and for all manner of good things.

But, just so you know the whole truth, Diary, when my path took me onto the busy street and I began to feel agitated by the roar of the cars rushing by, my thanksgiving faltered in a very quick and noticeable way.

I thank God, who is constantly having to rescue me, that instead of cursing the noise and bustle of it, He prompted me to give thanks for my city and for the goodness of such things as a sanitary sewer system, paved, lighted and maintained roads, the sidewalk I was using, clean water, emergency alert systems, and curbside trash and recycle service.

Thinking with purposeful gratitude about my city caused my mind to turn, again, to the story of Nehemiah and the rebuilding of Jerusalem; a piece of history which we have been studying on Sundays,and on which I have been meditating for many weeks.

Those thoughts, in turn, became prayers that the Prince and I would take our places in the city, that we would mend and defend our section of the wall, wherever it is, and bring honor to God.

Two hours later, I was covered in bits of wallpaper backing and joint compound dust, teetering on a ladder and wielding a brush full of sealant for damaged walls which I was desperately trying to keep out of my hair.

I was listening to the sweet chatter of my client's five-year-old and promising her that she could use the roller and 'paint on some glue' once I'd worked my way down the wall to her level.

I stopped, once I'd gotten there, to take a photo - the third in a series showing the process of redoing the room - and it suddenly struck me.

I was, quite literally, repairing a wall in my city...

 

 

...and I knew that it mattered.

 

 

 

 

Related articles

The Real Reason I'm Exhausted After a Long Walk

It's Been Five Days

I like to read.

Gee...

 

Without a 'G' there is no green,

There's nothing great, no gym, no Gene.

There are no gods, no goop, no glee,

There's nothing good without a 'G'.

You've got to have a 'G' to go,

To grin, to giggle, and to grow.

Without a 'G' there is no Glen,

No Gertrude, Gregory...

Hey...

No Gwen!

 

Good thing the streets yielded up a (perfect!) 'G' when I was walking yesterday.

Such an exciting discovery prompted a check on the progress of my Found Alphabet and I made another nice discovery when I pulled the letters out of the box: I'm much further along than I thought!

Here is the roll call:

No 'A'.

 

 

 

No 'D'.

 

 

No 'F'.

 

 

No 'H'.

No 'I'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No 'P'.

 

 

No 'R'.

 

 

 

No 'T'.

 

 

 

No 'W'. 

 

 

 

 

 

I've walked an awful lot of miles and there are nine letters still MIA.

Gee.

The Real Reason I'm Exhausted After a Long Walk

 

Dear Diary,

I had an unusual walk on the mean streets yesterday.

Well, I wasn't actually on the mean streets much, I spent most of my five miles in some nearby neighborhoods. 

I had some of my typical experiences; I found four pennies and another pair of flattened eyeglasses, and I saw a couple of things I wondered about.

For instance, how does a cleaning sponge wind up on the side of a major thoroughfare...

 

 

...and what is the story behind these broken crayons that were laying in the side street?

 

 

Why did they make me feel kind of sad?

When I found a nickel on the street yesterday, I had to wonder again why I find quarters and nickels very rarely, but find pennies and/or dimes nearly every time I walk.

 

 

There were some typical happy moments, too; as when I once again passed the names and dates which my neighbors - who are not kids - etched into our freshly repaired street last winter.

 

I like to think of the two of them deciding to leave their mark in the street and I always wonder if they did it openly or furtively.

Maybe it is more fun to imagine than to know.

I also took some action on a thought I have had many times when passing a lovingly landscaped yard.

I took photographs of anything that inspired or blessed me and am having some prints made to turn into postcards.

Maybe those strangers will enjoy getting a note letting them know the fruits of their labors are being appreciated by others.

 

 

But, Diary, what happened that made the walk unusual is kind of hard to tell you about.

You know my rule about kicking home any balls or round objects I find in the street when I'm close to home; just something I do to act like a kid again.

You also know that the ball has to be rated at least 3F : it has to be flattened, forsaken, filthy, forlorn, and/or forgotten (I wouldn't want to break any child's heart).

Unfortunately - or not, depending upon how you look at it - I found a 4F ball yesterday when I was a full two miles from home.

 

 

I don't know what got into me.

I thought, "What the heck. I'll just kick this baby all the way home."

Gosh, Diary, I felt really awkward when I was on the busier streets and old Flatty would lopsidedly meander into the middle of the road and all those nice drivers would slow down or stop to let the crazy old lady get her play toy.

Then something worse - or not, depending on your perspective - happened: I found another 3F.

It was a tennis ball, whose photo I didn't capture, because by now Flatty was behaving like a toddler, going this way and that no matter how I tried to direct him.

Well, I added Tennie to the family and let me tell you, Flatty and he never went in the same direction even once.

I was swerving all over the road and leaving my dignity behind me in bits and pieces.

After a mile or so - free, now, of all pride - I knew myself to be completely dedicated to seeing these two safely home, and I found myself going further and further out of my way to keep them rounded up.

As we all got tired, we took smaller and smaller steps, Flatty and Tennie started keeping together more and more, and we all seemed to be getting along better and better.

I was worried as we approached the main thoroughfare.

How was I going to get us all safely across without breaking the No Hands rule?

I silently formulated a plan to send Tennie across first: he was younger and had more bounce left in him, so I reasonably figured that he could make it onto the easement on the opposite side and wait there for Flatty and I to follow.

He didn't make it.

He got about three quarters of the way across and just stopped.

I watched with horror as he was hit by a car and dragged a good ten yards up the road.

Flatty and I crossed safely, if not altogether gracefully, a few moments later.

It took me some time to get Tennie out of the street then, and he was badly hurt; his fur coat hanging in shreds from every part of him.

As we were now so close to our own street, and home, I urged them both on and we rounded the corner onto our block.

Flatty must have been a little shook up, because he rounded the corner and went all the way to the far side of our street.

Tennie, mortally wounded and feeling he couldn't go on, rounded the corner, saw his chance to escape his misery, and offed himself; slipping quietly through the grate into the storm sewer.

I was stunned and unable to move for a moment.

When I pulled myself together, I crossed the street to Flatty and the two of us silently made our way home; moving very slowly now, exhausted and sorrowful.

Today Flatty lives with the other Round Objects I've Kicked Home in the drawer of the wicker plant stand on the front porch. 

Unlike the others, I doubt he will be played with and enjoyed by the grandshoots; he's too obviously flawed for them.

He has a special place in my heart, though.

He lived a whole life inside my head on the mean streets of Oklahoma City.

And so did Tennie.

God rest his soul.

 

 

I like to read.

 

In my never-ending quest to find a chair I can sit in comfortably (post-hurting-my-back), I purchased this mid-century modern piece at a garage sale last spring.

 

 

The foam cushions, which were almost useless, were covered in this unlovely grayish-white vinyl, but the chair seemed to promise me comfort if I would give it some care. 

It made it to the to-do list this month...

 

 

...and I am happy to report that it was completed today.

 

 

I would love to report that it turned out exactly as I'd hoped, but, alas, I did it myself.

Some things did go very right, and I am very happy about them.

I was able to construct the covers - lining the fabric, covering and attaching the cording, installing hidden zippers - in a way that pleased me (and I usually don't like working for Me, as I seem very hard to please).

Also, my friend, Able Baker Dana, shopped for fabric with me and pointed out that I had pulled the same piece of fabric out and considered it at two different stores.

The fabric is a departure from my usual orderly geographic prints, so I was very grateful that she was there to tell me that I was obviously desirous of a change.

Friends are an excellent thing to have.

When I told her that I just didn't think I would like the piping covered in the same fabric as the cushions, but also was concerned that black (the only other option my limited thinking could offer) would be a bit too harsh, she is the one who suggested I use the piece of fabric I had purchased to cover the piano bench (just because I liked it with chair fabric).

 

 

Perfection!

It was the definition the cushions needed, without a harsh note.

There were things I learned on this job, though, which, of course, are things I wish I had been able to avoid.

I made the top cushion shorter than the original because I wanted to see the lovely curved top of the chair. 

 

 

Can't see it, can you?

I did not take into account how much higher the seat would be when there was a new, wonderfully-firm piece of foam in the new-but-same-size cover.

Also, I wish I had used a 3" piece of foam for the seat-back cushion; using the four inch foam means I am sitting just a little bit too far out on the seat for perfect comfort.

Granted, that could be fixed, if I was willing to take the cushion cover apart and remake it and I was willing to spend money on another piece of foam.

Am I willing?

Not yet.

I have placed my new chair in my newly designated reading corner, and tomorrow morning I will make a test run.

I have a LOT of books I am currently reading and a whole lot more in the wings (that's a blog post for another day).

I am currently searching for the perfect little side table either to build or refinish for this space, and wondering what art would be just about right for the wall. 

 

 

Other than that, all that is needed is to open the window and pour a big, fresh cup of coffee.

Life is good.

Walk and Wonder

 

 

Dear Diary,

I need to talk to you in a rambling, non-edited sort of way today because, in spite of walking several miles on the mean streets this morning, I am a little nervous and unfocused and having a very hard time doing even one of the many, many things I need to be doing today.

Let's start with talking about those walks on the mean streets and see where it goes, because those walks fill me with lots and lots of questions and it's a safe bet I can ask them of you without having you laugh at me.

Am I nuts because I think the collection of washers I've found on the mean streets is beautiful?

Like, I would frame them and be happy having them on my gallery wall.

 

 

Also, I understand how washers and nuts and bolts and such wind up on the streets, because cars and trucks, and things that go, just naturally shake them loose and shed them after awhile.

But, Diary, how does all the silverware wind up on the street?

 

 

Who takes their dinner out to the street to eat it? 

Why don't they pick up their silverware when they drop it?

Why aren't there ever any knives?

And these keys...

 

 

What do they open?

Are their owners locked out forever?

Diary,how come I find so many yellow #2 pencils on the street?

 

 

What were they writing that they were cast off in such a manner?

Why do I feel sorry for them?

I feel sorry for the many pairs of smashed and broken eyeglasses I see in the street, too.

 

 

How did they come to be there?

Are they missed?

And another thing, Diary, I was walking down this sidewalk this morning...

 

 

...and being very careful not to step on the lines.

Why?

Because I was thinking about this ridiculous childhood rhyme we always chanted on our way to school:

"Step on a crack, you break your mother's back. Step on a line, you break your mother's spine."

Who on earth thinks up such terrible things for kids to chant?

And why pick on our dear, sweet mother?

Since I seem to be venting all my pent-up feelings about my walks on the mean streets, Diary, I'm just going to make a confession.

I take pictures of some wonderful things I see along the way, like these gorgeous roses which someone with an eye for beauty planted by their mailbox, ...

 

 

...and these colorful posies growing at the side of the road.

 

 

I appreciate their natural beauty, but I confess that sometimes I feel obligated to notice it.

I never feel obligated to notice the round, metal things which I am always delighted to find along the way.

Why do I like them?

What thrilled me about discovering that the power companies mark their big tree-trunk poles with these?

 

 

And why was I disappointed to find that, at some point along the way, they had changed from this 'gentler' font?

 

 

Why do I love the paving company emblem set in the concrete curb at the middle school?

 

 

So many round, metal things catch my eye when I am walking; some more or less permanent...

 

 

 

 

...and some there only temporarily.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lastly, because I'm feeling better now, Diary, I just want to tell you that I am very conscious of being watched when I walk.

I wonder if other people have noticed The Watcher, too.

 

 

He's a little, um, unnerving.