'Things To Look Forward To' Retreat at Milkwood Farm
I had to keep pinching myself when I was at at Milkwood in the Catskills. It felt like a dream. To be in the presence of Sophie Blackall whose vision has come to life in every corner…pure magic. Wildflowers were picked and drawn, poems spun as seeds were planted, brushstrokes flowed and horses emerged, things to let go of thrown in the fire…wishes sent off into the night. Treasures in the mailbox at the end of the lane and little boxes with notes that read Do Not Open. The friendships and seeds of inspiration will live on. I am so grateful to Sophie and Ed and the wonderful staff at Milkwood…their generosity and warmth and attention to detail was off the charts. The challenge now is to hold onto wonder.
A Mix Tape of Memory
To work with the energy of Mercury in retrograde I like to do all things “re”. Revisit, reorganize, reevaluate, and so on. I’ve been reflecting on my time in Banff, Alberta in 2005. I was part of the Optic Nerve Art Residency at the Banff Centre for the Arts, a life changing experience. One of my favorite parts was exploring pinhole photography with two incredible artists, Sarah Fuller and Diane Bos. Building the cameras from scratch and watching the images appear in the dark room…magic. The photos haunted me then and still do after all these years. It felt like we lived in a snow globe where time stood still.
Seeing Through a New Lens
It’s a wrap on Photography II at ICP. This time around I stepped far outside of my comfort zone. I had to ask strangers if I could take their picture on the street. Terrifying! I was surprised by how much I enjoyed connecting with humanity without a care of political barriers or anything at all…just real true connection.
Ghosting
I’ve recently picked up a camera again. I took a class at ICP and felt such relief in stepping away from my usual mediums. After two surgeries in 6 months, I’ve spent a lot of time alone. Waiting to overcome. Waiting for life to begin again. Waiting for scars to heal. Usually I draw or paint the objects around me. It was nice to explore my interior world and all of its many things, including me, in a different way. All of the mediums we play with speak to each other. There’s always a thread. A new way of seeing the same things we’re drawn to. I added two new ones in here in November…work in progress….
My Mourning Dove in the New York Times!
A Shift
I’ve always been terrified of oils, but It’s been gnawing at me for years to give it a try. I finally signed up for the portrait painting class at SVA that I’ve been eyeing for some time. The first two weeks of class were very challenging. I had to work so hard not to be discouraged by all the talent in the room. But this weekend I felt a shift. The teacher, John Parks, gave a short lecture on underpainting before we dove into work on the live model. I absolutely loved getting lost in the sculpting of the oils. It takes my love of drawing to another place. Every cell in my body feels alive…a sign to keep going. Work in progress…next week I’ll add color. (PS: I wasn’t as happy with it once I added the color!)
The Capture
A dear friend snapped this photo at the Met in November. If he only knew. In that moment I was with my grandmother, Nanie, who taught me to draw and dabble in paint. She loved Renoir and I loved her. I’d sleep at her house and we’d create together. She with her oils, me with my fingers covered in pastels. In that moment I felt her and I’m so grateful he captured it.
Shining Through Brain Fog
Three weeks ago I got slammed with covid. I was surprised how hard it hit me being that I am the most isolated person I know. Even as the fevers, pain and nausea started to lift, I couldn’t function. The intense fatigue and brain fog were debilitating. The thought of focusing on my sculptural sketches was too much. I’ve always dreamed of painting, but have been afraid to try. I had no problem painting as a kid. I lived for painting in any form…oils, acrylics, watercolor. In my old diaries I swore I was going to be a painter one day. With the brain fog swirling I pulled out some gouache and a small piece of paper and set the timer for 20 minutes. I pushed the paint around quickly and loosely and wrote down my thoughts. I released all judgements. I went back to the table each day for 20 minutes. A flow was moving and joy flickered through my deep depression. I’m feeling so much better now and loving these little pieces that saved me. I am going to make fifty and see where they go…
An Ode to Regret
I’d like to say that I have no regrets, but I’d be lying. My regrets are everywhere, hiding, haunting, scribbled, stitched. Traces surface like souvenirs in the lines on my face or when I speak with a tone. Voices tell me to drag them out, burn them to ash and let them go. But I love them. Each one holds a life, faded, like a stain bleached out by the sun.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on regrets since the passing of my aunt in September and spending months rummaging through her home. An excavation of a life, or should I say lives, as my grandmother once lived there too. Hidden pieces of them layered in all corners. Pieces I wish I knew deeper. It got me to thinking about my own secrets and ghosts hidden in boxes and tucked away on shelves. I’ve started pulling them out and transforming them into sculptural sketches. Mending, healing, transforming...this will be an ongoing project.
A Room of My Own
After a creatively debilitating year a fresh burst of energy swept through me. I opened the door to my back room, a room I never felt comfortable lingering in. I ripped down the curtains and let the light flood in. I purged, pushed, and painted three painstaking coats. Fresh. Bright. White. A clean slate.
Stream of Consciousness
The curtains bellow, the steam heat rattles in my otherwise quiet room. No sirens. A year has slipped through our darkest recesses. Desires abandoned. Physical touch…a fading memory. Living behind masks in silence as tinnitus rings in my ears, piercing higher on my right. A year of insomnia. Each night a kaleidoscope of dreams, inner rambles, blood anxiously pumping, staring out my window in hopes that a slight breeze will enter.
In the midst of the peak the sirens layered one over the other morning till night. The ice cream man’s jingle adding another layer of confusion. Concussion. The deep pain of racism and police brutality, the barrage of psychotic breaks in the shape of tweets. When I landed in LA for winter to escape the confines of my walls, I was struck by the crows. Never before had I seen so many crows as death swelled around us. A black cat crossed my path, time and again. I kept my door open for the sheer fact that I could, what a novelty to have a door to the outside. The cat slipped in a few times, but when it’s eyes met mine it ran. Every time. When I was a superstitious three year old a black cat crossed my path. I ran to escape as darkness descended. I have been running ever since.
In February I returned to Brooklyn. I was filled with a new lightness from the sun baked landscapes of the Palm Desert. Bright pops of color, blue skies and family hugs swept away the debris. I frantically purged and scrubbed and created a new space, a white space, solely for art making. A room of one’s own. My own. A place where the many layers of the psyche can spill on paper. A release. The church bells ring. Uncertainty crackles around us as hope softens the edges. One foot on the floor, then the other. A new day begins. Good morning, sweet birds.
Journal Entry from March 22nd
The vegan mint chip is gone. It may have been the one thing keeping me together. On the other side of my wall a neighbor coughs deeply. Fear has paralyzed us all into isolation. Life seemed so simple back in December, merely months ago. Our first kiss in a doorway on Rivington left me floating. Fate found us on the M train, two separate cars, going over the same bridge at the same time. I was on the wrong train, but as we stumbled onto the platform at Marcy and saw each other we laughed. I was on the very right train. You invited me back to your place for a wee whisky. I obliged, curious to see into your world. And here we are. Fragile world, fragile hearts. Jobs lost. Apart inside our own walls, vulnerable. Before isolation fully formed its grip I hopped on the G, with caution, to your place. You hugged me hard and felt my heart pounding so loud it was startling. Who will be lost? I sat in silence as your son explored the room with wonder, following lines with his hands in the darkness, his head leaning in to see with his being. Pause. A knock. Plastic or metal? Knock knock. Wood? The innocence lulled me back to center. I long to be back in that room again, a rectangle, not a rhombus. I sit here in my place, the steam heat rattling as breath catches, afraid to move. Bracing as the numbers swell. Who will remain? Who will we be when we cross to the other side?
River Stories
This year’s theme has been the challenge of finding comfort in the uncertainty. I wrangled with fear in the winter…not sure where my road is going. And then in the spring the freelance job in fashion that keeps my lights on went under. The brand closed without warning and the panic that filled me was immense. Luckily NYS has a 90 day Warn Rule, meaning I’d be paid for the rest of summer. Once I let go I’ve found myself having one of the best summers of my life. It’s been filled with friends and family, mini trips, demo cheffing at the Fancy Food show and days making magic at the loft of Lael Cakes. Celebrate Brooklyn is in my backyard filling my nights with music under the stars and my escapes have been to the river. The bungalow has always been my grounding place. I can still hear the echoes of grandma yelling, “Soups on!” and Pop Pop weaving stories of Ireland as rain fell on the canopies of trees.
I’ve been finding my solace in line. Playing with India ink and one brush that’s voice shifts with each delicate turn. I will continue to sketch my surroundings and build a nice collection of river stories…there are many as this river has generations of tales.
Tuning Out the World, Listening to the Whispers
In 2006 I was tucked away at an arts residency in Banff, Alberta. I felt as if I were living in a snow globe of creativity...a truly magical experience that changed the course of my life. This past month has felt the sparkle and energy of that time. Every cell in my body feels lit with a higher creative vibration than usual. When I entered cooking school I had no idea what I would do with it, I still don’t know...but my gut was nudging me and I rolled with it. I was afraid that I would lose the designer in me...or lose the creative side of me that hasn’t even scratched the surface yet.
But the opposite is happening. I feel like the lid has blown off and my creativity is opening up, way up. I graduated in September, quit my day job at Gap the same day...so many goodbyes at once. Clearing out my desk of over 9 years, clearing out my locker at school. It was both hard and exciting. I was finally taking the leap. The next day I woke up and flew to a Paris with two mates from school. I have always felt so at home there. It was the perfect place to pivot. That city makes me want to write and draw and fall in love with life all over again.
I began my internship at Lael Cakes on my return. I honestly have to pinch myself when I’m there. To see into the world that Emily has created for herself is awe-inspiring. Not only is she dripping with talent and an incredible sense of design, but the world she has created for herself on her own terms is such a blessing to witness. I feel like I’ve been sent a great teacher to show me that there is a different way. I am so grateful for the opportunity to learn from her.
So we’ll see where this road leads. I’m just reveling in one day at a time...playing with my creativity in new ways and seeing the world in a way that I’ve never seen it before.
My Squash and Caramelized Onion Thanksgiving Pie...with a gluten free pie crust. :)
An Ode to Galettes
Stay tuned...I have so much to say! it has been far too long since I've posted. Here are a few pictures of my new creations. I'm having the time of my life in Chef's Training!
Summer Fall
I never thought I'd live past the age of 32. And here I am, 45. I can’t tell you how surreal it was to wake up in Sweden on the morning of my 32nd birthday. As my friends sang “grattis på födelsedagen” over my bed, I looked down at my hands and couldn’t believe I was still here.
My father died at 32. It’s strange to be far outliving him. He was my hero, despite the fact that he was unemployed, overweight, smoked, and drank too much. He had a walloping laugh that filled the room and called for a hard pat on the back. That coming September of ‘76 was going to be a big one for me. I was turning five and starting kindergarten the very same week. Every day he walked my little brother and me to the quiet school playground, where I would coil my fingers through the chain link fence and envision my new life at the end of summer. He'd sit me high on his shoulders, where I felt like I was on top of the world. He couldn’t wait to walk me to my first day of school and promised to throw me the biggest birthday party ever.
That August afternoon felt different. The scent of lilacs swept through the kitchen windows as my father broke down and cried at the table. Hunched over the job postings in the paper, deeply worried about money. As he stood up to take the dog out for a walk my mom hugged him and said, “At least we have each other.” He smiled, wiped his eyes, and headed out.
My father never returned from that walk.
Something is wrong, flashed deep in my bones. All traces of laughter drained from the rooms. The eyes of the visitors were vacant and lifeless, like the windows of a house in a blackout.
When I asked where he was, no one would tell me. They would just mutter, “He got a job. He went to work.” But deep inside I knew that not to be true. I'd lie in the grass, stare up at the clouds, and tell myself that I was lucky just to have him for that little glimpse of time. A week later I blew out the candles, my wish carrying the wisdom of an old woman who understands how precious life really is.
Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. I wonder what life would’ve been like to feel his protection and guidance. I do feel him around me as I move through my days and for that I am truly grateful.
Tumble, Rise, Repeat.
Winter was a long stretch of stunned silence. For a while there it felt like everything around me was dissolving. It was, still is. My art table gathered dust and piles of books and what-nots. By May the light found its way through the cracks. When chaos swirls outside me, I go inward. I dove deep into meditation with sound classes to open up the microchakras. With each note I felt expansion and life piercing through. The days spilled into nights out with friends at the Bandshell in Prospect Park, karaoke, a circle back to Nashville, book signings at BEA and ALA in San Francisco. Life is good when we learn to accept what is and embrace the changes. Today I set the intention of creating a rhythm again. I lovingly scrubbed my art table and made space for inspiration. Haven’t started working yet, but the supplies are out.
Now it’s just a matter of showing up each day.
Pencils Down!
I just crossed the finish line illustrating the latest book written by one of the loveliest people on the planet, Erin Frankel. Nobody! comes out May 2015. Now I sit here and wonder....what's next??
The Duality of Light and Dark
The silence is deafening. It may appear that there has been no movement lately, but things are not as quiet as they appear. Life has been a tsunami of profound shifts. My parents have been going through a life threatening illness which has made the last year very challenging. Through the suffering there have been moments of stillness and beauty that are hard to describe. Stages unfold in waves…forgiveness, anger, love, resistance, grief, acceptance. We hit every note in the spectrum, each note being a necessary part of the process. There have been moments without words, only tears, and a hand touching another. The pain is staggering at times, but we have learned to walk with it and carry on with life. To stay in a creative flow and push the emotions aside at work has me digging deep for new ways of finding peace with the present moment. I have deep admiration for the caretakers of the world.
Spirit guides in Ireland.
It's hard to believe that one year ago I was filled with paralyzing fear of speaking in public. 2014 has been my year of saying yes to things that scare the crap out of me. I have been doing a slew of readings, art activities and discussions with kids about bullying in schools and bookstores. It is by far the most rewarding work I have ever done. When I initially sat down at the drawing table I set the intention of sending love to the children with every line. I had no idea that the love would come rushing back tenfold.
In February I led a mind-body-creativity workshop during a yoga retreat in the Berkshires with my friend Beth and the lovely yoga teacher, Liza Keogh. What a stunning experience! To witness the group let go and transform while creating was fascinating. It was a weekend of community cooking, laughter, tears, and bonding with such beautiful women. With all that has been going on I have struggled with giving myself permission to relax and rejuvenate. But taking a step away and diving into yoga and meditation and connecting with like-minded souls has been such a gift. These new experiences have been a such a sweet surprise.
“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart...Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside awakes.”
Last weekend I attended a Channeling Your Creativity workshop at Omega Institute in Rhinebeck led by Alanis Morisette and James Van Praagh. A weekend full of recognizing who or what has been holding me back, breaking down walls, being vulnerable, building friendships, journaling, meditating and dancing. A wall came down...a door opened. It doesn't get better than that.
Channeling Your Creativity workshop at Omega
And let’s not forget that illustrating has officially begun on our next children’s book! I can’t share any of the rough sketches, so there might not be any new artwork up for a while. It is a continuation of The Weird Series, but focusing on the journey of Thomas. I am nose to the grindstone (on weekends and weeknights). Oh how I hope one day I can be a full time illustrator/writer and devote all of my energies to what I love.