Wisdom from a Bear

Pooh Bear from the movie, Christopher Robin

"People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day."

That small bit of astute wisdom comes from Winnie the Pooh. A movie filled with adorable stuffed animals and Ewan McGregor is not a bad way to spend a Monday night while Norman plays poker with his cronies in our house. The mindful lessons of Pooh Bear are right on. Nothing is impossible. I am figuring that out every day in my quest to do the impossible. Some days, I do nothing; it is my summer break after all. Then I might I redecorate a room and paint a portrait all in one day. The summer is my chance to get everything done before fall obligations kick in. Only thing is that I don't have fall obligations. I am retired. My life could very well be in the hundred acre woods with Pooh and his friends. I can enjoy a day of doing nothing if that's where my red balloon takes me.

"I always get to where I am going by walking away from where I've been."

Now there's a clever little thought from the bear of little brain. I am a big believer in fate and everything we experience was presented to us for a reason. I have changed my identity many times. Commercial artist, graphic artist, illustrator, copywriter, summer camp artist, mom, home cook, pickleball champ, and art teacher. I am now well prepared for a future that might include designing a logo for a pickleball racquet to be used at a camp for retirees. You never know where your past can lead you, even as you leave it behind. Now, I'd like to move forward with the confidence of Pooh and get to where I am going. Which way is that, Pooh Bear?

"Doing nothing often leads to the very best kind of something."

I'll let that jewel steep for awhile while I do nothing. Thank you, Sam, for a wonderful night at the movies and giving me something to think about. Go see the Christopher Robin movie. It's not just for kids, stuffed bears or this retired brain.

Books and Bobbleheads

Funny thing about retiring. I am not only reinventing myself but now I have extra time to tackle changes to my home and my family. I am not quite sure this is why I wanted extra time.

At some point, our daughter told me that I should turn her room into an art studio. It was one of the hardest things to do, to create a space just for me. Now her beautiful room has a different purpose and a very different reason to enter. We used to stand in her doorway and smile at her curly hair spread out adorably on her pillow next to Murray and next to a pile of laundry that always seemed as unmanageable as curly hair could be. Somehow, she managed them both. Now, there is no curly hair covering a pillow in her room. There is no bed or pillow in the room. Just Murray remains to keep me company when I paint at the easel. In my heart, it will always be Katie's room. Just as her name will always be Katie, not Kate. Sorry, 'bout that sweetie. Some things cannot change.

Zach's room has remained empty since December. He comes home every now and then to say hi, to fix a toilet with a saw, to walk Murray, or to join us at the table whenever I get carried away with extra food. I love how close he and Michele are. I love that they can just pop by for a few minutes. With each visit, Zach comes downstairs with another bunch of books, a few shirts, and more random stuff to bring to his new apartment. I don't mind his things staying here. That big bedroom at the end of the hallway still has his name on it. We can hold his stuff as long as he wants us to hold his stuff. Hopefully, he will keep Sundays this fall for watching the Jets in the den. Hopefully, that will not change.

Zach's room was always used as a guest room. He would happily give up his queen-sized bed for visitors and sleep on the couch. Now it really is a room anyone can crash for the night. He has his own queen-sized bed somewhere else. Yesterday, in an effort to attack more areas of the house, I approached Zach's room with the same trepidation I did Katie's room. By noon, the furniture was shifted around, the dust bunnies swept away, and a new quilt fit for a guest is now the feature of the room. His furniture is still his furniture, but in a new arrangement, it feels new. Books and bobblehead dolls are the only visible memories of my son's childhood. It will be a nice place for Dave to sleep when he comes to visit in a few weeks. It is still a nice room, but it has changed. Too much is changing all at once. I don't know how I feel about this.

Katie's room, Zach's room, new bathrooms, and now the living room without Sam's piano. Too much is changing this year. I was envious of everyone else's neat homes during my children's childhood years. I dreamed that I could have a house a visitor could just drop by and not be embarrassed about my mess. In retrospect, it was not a mess. It was never a mess (okay, maybe sometimes it was), it was just a loving, busy home for a family. One by one, each room is getting redefined this year, just as I am redefining me. I can now put a red rope in front of the doors like they have in a museum for people to just admire the spaces. Spaces that are not being used to their advantage. Spaces that are not lived in. My house should be a house for a family. There should be messes, noises, and footsteps on the stairs. Too much is changing all at once. I don't know how I feel about this.

A Staycation for the Levine's (58)

I think we took a staycation yesterday. That is a vacation where you really don't leave your hometown, at least not go far. Norman and I went to visit our friends Shmooey and Paula in NYC. They live near Chinatown, within walking distance of the Brooklyn Bridge and the ferry terminals. Norman made a list of the ways we can get into downtown Manhattan. This is such a production for people living in New Jersey, figuring out the least painful way to cross the river. Especially frustrating when you lived the first half of your life as a New Yorker and you well know the ease of getting around. One excursion on our list was to park at the Staten Island Ferry terminal and take the boat across the East River. That sounded like fun. On a pretty day, it almost sounded like a vacation!

With all vacations, getting there is part of the fun or the agony. Depends on traffic. We were lucky, yesterday. With all vacations, finding parking can be fun if you are Norman and you were born knowing how to parallel park, or it can be agony if there are no spots. We circled around the Ferry terminal lot wondering where people leave their car. We followed the Staten Island signage for parking through the streets and found another $8 lot. Parking there was also tight, even for my husband, my expert parker. But we did leave our car and boarded our free cruise line to New York City. It was a crowded boat, but a lovely and breezy way to travel.

I follow many new people on Instagram. It started out as a place for me to follow fellow vegans. A place to follow fellow quilters. A place to follow fellow painters. I always said that Instagram was perfect for me because while Facebook is all about the faces of your friends, Instagram is geared towards things that might inspire you. I have lots of pictures of colorful and delicious dinners filling my feed, not the people filling up on food. Lately, as I am reinventing myself, I started to follow fashion. That makes no sense for anyone who knows me. What do I care about fashion? Give me a pair of sweatpants with a sweatshirt to keep me warm and I am a happy fashion plate of a girl. I now scroll through Instagram admiring older women showing off their silver hair and outrageous styles. As I get older, I want style.

Yesterday, on our cruise, we got a bird's eye view of what it takes to be an Instagram model. These gorgeous women with strong Jamaican accents (I think) were all dressed to kill and they modeled against the railing of our boat for the entire ride. I leaned over to Norman and whispered that it must have taken them four hours to get ready just to spend the rest of their day taking selfies. These women had perfect bodies squeezed into bright yellow dresses, tops, and pants. There was no evidence of underwear lines, just the right amount of flesh (that I would protect under my underwear) peeking through. Very sexy ladies. Their smiles were well-practiced pouts and they posed from all different angles. In front of our faces, we watched big lips, big chests, and very big tushies being captured on their phones. Every so often a cute Asian couple with a real camera would take turns at the rail, posing with the Statue of Liberty in the distance. We were well amused on our cruise line. That was some staycation. Who needs Carnival Cruise when you have the Staten Island Ferry?

My Norman Rockwell Life (57)

I dreamed about bats last night. The other day, Josie ran to our door in her bare feet, scared of a bat that somehow got into her house. The bat was eventually caught under a blanket by her son's friends and taken out to pasture. I usually never remember my dreams unless I am sick or pregnant. Last night I had dreams of bats grinning at me from every closet of my house. Cute ones, but still. Is there something wrong with me other than my having trouble following one direction in retirement?

Murray the painting is coming along. He is such a handsome boy. I enjoy working oversized on his canvas, really getting intimate with all the intricate patterns of his gray fur. He sits on the floor at my feet while I paint his canvas. It is a Norman Rockwell scene, a sweet and happy glimpse at how I would like to live my life, dog included. Evan came by for his afternoon art lesson, hopefully for the last of his free, complimentary lessons. My tutoring experiment worked, kids are happy to paint with me. I have not forgotten how to teach. Next step is to create an email flyer and send it out to a few select Ranney parents. I hope I can find a few families willing to pay the $100 fee Barbara advises me to charge. I am considering a Saturday or Sunday morning class. That might work nicely for students who live far away and have such long school days. 

Then last night, we met Jen, a friend of Sam's. She came to hear his open mike night performance at the Old Glory courtyard. Lisa joined us for dinner and it was a perfect summer evening. For once, it was not too hot or rainy. Sam is so talented, he could always chase away the clouds with his beautiful voice. Jen was a music ed major with Sam at Mason Gross, which means they have known each other for 12 years now. That is a long and loyal friendship, and she is clearly fond of my son. Too bad she has a boyfriend! Anyway, Jen impressed me with her story. Starting off as a music teacher in a public school, she changed her career after suffering from some health issues. She now runs her own music studio in Middletown with 60 private students and a waiting list of even more kids wanting to join. I listened to her successful career change as another sign that being a private teacher could work. I am enjoying my free time this summer, but financially and personally, I am not ready to cash in my professional life for the pastures just yet. Me and the bats getting thrown out to the wind? I don't think so.

So, I will create that tutoring email flyer, starting with Sabrina Lo and a few others from this year's fifth grade. They all said they wanted private lessons. Did they mean that? Are they willing to come to Marlboro? And I'll attack the basement and create a space for student work and student supplies, moving all that stuff down from my dining room table. That same table I hate and keep covered with an old cloth, has become a dumping ground for old teacher gifts, summer hats, summer bags, and student art supplies. It needs to become my dining room again. As I enjoy my Norman Rockwell life, I want to know that I can run an art business of some sort and still have a clean house. No bats allowed.

Wrestling With Art (56)

When Zach was a little boy, he inherited a bunch of wrestling dolls from Seth. Zach was literally weaned on wrestling. Our baby nurse sat on the couch with Norman and our newborn baby, and they all watched wrestling on television together. The comfortable and chunky chest of our nurse pillowed Zach for the first few days of his life. Then the nurse got tossed out with the dirty diapers way before the week was over. I could sit on the couch with my baby just as easily, not that I watched wrestling. I wanted us to be a family and I wanted to take care of him myself. 32 years later, Zach still goes to wrestling matches with his friends and we have bins of his figures in the basement. One day, I am sure his sons will play with his sacred collection of Hulk Hogan figures and plastic wrestling rings.

The wrestlers from Seth's collection were special because they were made of rubber and the arms could be pulled out in opposite directions. But then wrestlers are freaky people, so I guess that makes sense. This freaky oppositional extension of these freaky dolls was a strange memory to pop into my head this morning. I suppose it was because we attended a gallery talk last night in the Monmouth Museum. Norman and I watched an artist give a demonstration of her work. Most things the artist rambled on about brought oppositional thoughts to my head. I even sat there at times with my arms crossed, as if to say, "Really? Is that really what you think? Hmph!" Then, every once in a while she would mention something intriguing and inspiring. I guess it was like having my arms pulled in different directions at the same time and I'm glad for the experience. It made me think and grow as an artist.

Heather Lynn Gibson was the painting artist for the gallery talk. She set up her easel, huge photography lights to shine on the canvas, paints, brushes, a computer screen, and the same palette I just discovered this summer. I love that palette. I also like her very large Mac computer screen she brought to show the photograph she is working from. I use an iPad for the same purpose, but that monitor is really nice. Her inspiring message was all about complementary colors. As I traveled the perimeter of the room and perused her work, there was something so bright and cheerful about the paintings. A touch of orange or red peeked through in the most unexpected ways and brightened her scenes. It was lovely. She is a good artist, especially with color.

Her message was to underpaint the scene in complementary colors. So if something is blue, she would first apply orange paint (its opposite on the color wheel). At this point in the demonstration, her canvas began to look like a negative of the photograph. For anyone not knowing what I mean by a negative, I have to go way back in time, just like that journal book I found in Barnes and Nobles, "When I was your age, Pluto was a planet." A negative is a light-sensitive roll of film we all used back in the day to capture an image in our old-time film loading cameras. The negative recorded the image in reverse, dark areas as light areas, and colors in their complementary shade. All that got reversed back to normal in the prints we used to wait over a week for at the local CVS. My dad would magically do the same thing with a bunch of chemicals and his enlarger in our basement. Very, very cool process. There is an art to science. Anyway, I digress. I am not sure if Heather even gets the pure genius of her application here. She plays around with color theory to create vibrating and beautiful moments in her otherwise staid, realistic scenes. But as she only works from a photograph, starting the image as a negative was pure serendipity, and the irony of it was not lost on this old timer.  

The struggles artists face when we rely on photographs is that our paintings are in danger of appearing as flat as the flattened image on Heather's beautiful Mac monitor. There is a sense of atmosphere and depth to life that a photograph may not convey. Heather brings intrigue to her flat images through hints of color and that does make her art worth admiring. I also work from a photograph. It would be insane to have Murray sit on the couch and pose for hours at a time. I try my best to bring my photographic dogs back to life on my canvas. I am never sure I succeed, but every so often I can feel life in my furry friends. A creative wrestling match is not so horrible, at least not a silly as a real wrestling match (sorry, Zach). It's always exciting to be pulled in a new direction and always fun to figure it out.

My Books, My Nook (55)

I love to read a good novel. This summer, I relaxed on the beach with “The Last Van Gogh,” a book given to me by my friend, Bev. She also gave me a box filled with paperback mysteries of midwife adventures at the turn of the century. I will start those next. Thank you, Bev! I consider an actual printed book to be a good beach read since it is kind of hard to focus on the words of my Nook in the sun. Not that I am in the sun, exactly. I can usually be found under an umbrella. Still, there is sand to contend with and a dying charge that ends just as you get to the very best part. Thus the paper book makes sense. "The Last Van Gogh" entertained my beach days this summer and I savored the story, keeping it in my tote and reading it only on the shores of Ocean Grove.

I haven’t read a paper novel since last summer. How quickly this old retired mind adapts new habits, and they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks! So here I started off my summer with a printed novel and to turn to a new page, I found my fingers swiping from right to left out of a well-ingrained tablet habit. And... wouldn't you know... I eventually looked up at the top of the book for the time. There is no digital clock on a printed book. God. But I did enjoy this paperback about my favorite artist. I even read every last word of the author notes and squinted at my phone to find the actual paintings the story was based on. If we can squeeze out enough sunny days to make our beach passes worth buying this year, I am ready to let the next real page turning adventure begin. Bring on those midwives!

Yesterday, I popped into Barnes and Nobles in search of a new cookbook. I do enjoy reading on my Nook, except for on the beach... or in the kitchen. People need to cook from a real cookbook. It takes time to search through the fridge for ingredients, to chop things as requested, or to let things slowly saute. And in the process of cooking, an iPad or an iPhone will go blank. Then the iPad or iPhone will get covered in food when you are ready for step #2 and have to turn it back on. The touch ID won't work with tomato sauce on your finger, never mind how dirty the entire screen gets by swiping and searching for the recipe again. An old-fashioned cookbook, on one of the many wooden cookbook stands I own, does the trick without being prissy and impatient. A printed cookbook would never shut its own cover because you made it wait! I love my Nook but there are reasons we should all still own a bookshelf, that handy and proud piece of furniture in everyone's home.

Barnes and Nobles used to have a section in their stores delegated to selling the Nook. The Nook was my choice when e-readers came into the market. I thought a Nook felt better in my hand and looked much nicer than a Kindle. Yesterday, the first thing I noticed when Zach and I entered the bookstore, was the missing display of Nooks. They still sell covers for e-readers we already own, but the Nooks are not a selling point for the company anymore. That worries me. I have an entire library on my B&N account of biographies, historical novels, romance novels, important health reads such as "How Not to Die", and yes, even some cookbooks. I can't imagine how money much I actually spent. I am such a voracious reader, that back in the day, my old collection of paper novels was turning into a fire hazard in my basement, my garage, and on my bookshelves. I was happy to start a new collection that took up very little space on my nightstand. But if my Nook goes the way of the 8 track tape and the Sony Walkman, what will happen to all of my books?

A printed novel may burn in a fire but it won't disappoint a reader with a dying charge. A printed novel may become historical in content if enough years pass by, but the printed word will not become a thing of the past. I should hope not. How will I ever cook dinner? A journal cover at Barnes and Nobles read, “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet.” Hah! When I was your age, Jeffrey Silver used to carry my heavy textbooks the five blocks to PS 209. No school bus, no backpack, no pants allowed for girls even on a cold winter's walk to school, and no need to remember a charging device for a tablet. As I get older I am becoming obsessed with obsolescence. A day at the beach will fix that.

A Common Thread (54)

I am not sure if this is a common trait among people. When I complete a long and satisfying project, I need time away. Time away from an easel after I sign a painting. Time away from the kitchen after cooking all day. Time away from the computer screen after a design or an essay is complete, even though that is my favorite activity of late. I will not look to step away for long if the project is not finished to my satisfaction. The challenge to get it perfect will lure me back again and again. Then I want to get away.

I always need time away from people after company leaves. I wonder how common that is.

Murray the painting is coming along slowly. I drew him on the canvas and the drawing sat idle for days. I painted a lovely background and that sat for days. I painted the shadows of his face and body with his adorable paws crossed in front of him and that sat for days. It was like each step was a monumental achievement and I needed to step away and take a break. I miss the adrenaline rush I had two months ago, propelling me through every activity to completion. Perhaps I am finally finding my retired old lady pace. What am I in a rush for, really? I do hope I receive a paying commission for a pet portrait soon, but until then, there is no rush to get Murray up on my wall. He follows me about the house during the day and sleeps curled up against my body every night. He is already King of the Manor in real life. Perhaps I just work better under a deadline. I bet that is a common thread defining many people.

I was very impressed with Vicki's Instagram post this morning. I hope she takes my comment as a compliment because I wrote it in the highest regard. Her black and white photograph of a lady cooling off at the beach could easily have been taken and developed by my father. The authentic character of this woman captured in Vicki's lens is remarkable. Perhaps because it is in black and white, there is a harsh reality to her body as she stands with her feet in the water, in a scant bikini, under a sun hat with hair peeking out of the top. It is rude to stare at people. Photographers, such as my father and Vicki, make it possible to stare at many different people in the name of art. It may only have taken a second for the shutter to open and capture that image, but Vicki's Instagram followers were gifted with lots of time to stare and reflect. As a teenager, I went to a museum with my parents to see the white plaster people by George Segal. I remember the moment I realized that they must have been cast on real folks since they were not only perfect in detail but actual in size. You could sit on the bench next to a sculpture as if you were sitting next to a real person. You could go right up to the face of a sculpture and feel how uncomfortable it is to disregard the polite distance we all know to keep between others. While I don't usually search out deeper meanings in my museum visits other than how the art personally affects me or whether or not it inspires me to go home and create my own art, George Segal's plaster people made me consider the human condition. Are we all born with the social awareness to keep our distance or to not to stare at others? Let's hope that is a common thread that runs through most people. George Segal made an artist statement about human nature with plaster humans. And Vicki's camera may have been rude for a split second but she gave us a generous window of time to reflect on life. That is art.