tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25698387608267218262024-03-14T06:12:21.941-07:00Art in the LifeUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-30281466758189102082013-09-29T22:39:00.000-07:002013-10-14T20:16:08.426-07:00Update.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYhOqNJ3fKc3DKG3MylKOPMjkMdNGX19Q7cXXUxA5s0-qyAjG6jvlgY9mTQLhfS9EXcs-w6zvgUhs3b4_mJsOPrRr2JfH1Aq253zrBYydDaDJoSfewp5lXqao_qkrE7CKZyioauXPw8g/s1600/40063_10150249131135451_416583_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYhOqNJ3fKc3DKG3MylKOPMjkMdNGX19Q7cXXUxA5s0-qyAjG6jvlgY9mTQLhfS9EXcs-w6zvgUhs3b4_mJsOPrRr2JfH1Aq253zrBYydDaDJoSfewp5lXqao_qkrE7CKZyioauXPw8g/s320/40063_10150249131135451_416583_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>Once upon a time, I wrote a blog post about my mom's best friend, Joanne Prokop.<br />
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You can find the post, A Kinder Kidney, in the December/2012 folder. I wrote about Joanne's struggle to find a kidney donor. She has Polycystic Kidney Disease and has been waiting to find a match with a donor.<br />
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Good News! After four long years of waiting... a match has been found and Joanne goes in for transplant surgery tomorrow to replace her failing kidneys.<br />
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Please keep her and her family in prayers and positive thoughts as she begins the new chapter of her life with a healthy kidney.<br />
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An update to the update: Joanne has been recovering very quickly after her kidney transplant. It was very nice to see her and know she is doing well.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-75648178025696630012013-09-22T22:42:00.001-07:002013-10-13T12:44:12.985-07:00Turning Back TimeWhile I write this blog post, I hear the tinny circus music of the ice cream truck becoming louder as it drives up my lane for what will most likely be the last time of the season. Lightning storms will motivate them to pack their goods in deep freeze for the winter. I can't help but think back to the time when I was a child and I don't think there was an ice cream truck anywhere in the wild corners of Mendocino County.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Debra, me and Monty. Astonishingly, at 53, I still accidentally give myself that particular haircut. </i><br />
<i>Behind us may be the stairs to my grandfathers workshop... I am not sure of the date.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Frog Woman Rock - 1984<br />(Renamed from Squaw <br />Rock in 2011)</i></td></tr>
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I have a few scattered memories of my early school days spent in the hills of Northern California, outside the small community of Hopland, where we lived in the old Riverbend Hotel and Stage Stop; it was quite the pale pink monolith rising up from the side of scenic Highway 101 just north of Frog Woman Rock* (Until 2011, known as "Squaw Rock") where the legend of star-crossed lovers was memorialized on a boulder off the highway with a little extended real estate that no one ever seemed to use for anything other than a turnaround.<br />
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Our home was a three- storey dwelling that had a great deal of potential as a restoration project... of course I didn't know this when I was 6 years old. HGTV was nowhere in sight in 1966. However, I can look back in my mind and see the old construction and all the possibilities that were present and I find I am very fond of the memory of that house.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nC0QlH6d7gCEcWjXWpNIenqE_uX07J1OA2KgFg2kA-69lk-8NDaqKpSKAoWX3uigVCnB8E1sMxyfVFeDWWHQP7-3t7bh0B9JcVg1ZcZB7PsP9V0GgdqHOt3U0B8geSc_SGOZA679VYQ/s1600/1962-1967_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nC0QlH6d7gCEcWjXWpNIenqE_uX07J1OA2KgFg2kA-69lk-8NDaqKpSKAoWX3uigVCnB8E1sMxyfVFeDWWHQP7-3t7bh0B9JcVg1ZcZB7PsP9V0GgdqHOt3U0B8geSc_SGOZA679VYQ/s1600/1962-1967_3.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me, Debra and Monty ready for school. Highway 101</i><br />
<i>is behind us and the vineyard extends to the base of</i><br />
<i>the hills where the Russian River flows.</i></td></tr>
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In the neighborhood of our hotel, there were four houses. The DeMarcantonios' were the wealthy wine farmers who lived on top of the cliff behind our house. The very steep road that lead up to their mansion was narrow and on the left, the yellow hills climbed in tandem with the road, but to the right, I imagined the earth falling away to what seemed like miles of nothing to the nearly dry, Pieta Creek.<br />
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Once, while on a walk with my parents, I remember following my older siblings out into the tall wheat-colored grass, when Dad called us back we all ran at top speed. My brother and sister made it back safely to our parents, but as I neared the road the downhill slope gave me increased speed and I didn't know how to put the breaks on my legs. Lucky for me, Dad could run faster and we met in the middle of the road, him scooping me up into the safety of his arms before I reached the cliff side.<br />
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At the top of this mighty mountain was the castle... the fortress of the DeMarcantonio wine family, (in retrospect, this home was a Spanish style rambler.) They were the richest people we knew, evidenced by the dog named Queenie and a dish that sat on their coffee table all the time and was always magically filled with candy.<br />
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From the perch overlooking the valley, the DeMarcantonio family looked down upon us in our three-storey home and and also saw the goings-on at my grandparents' dwelling situated a bit north along the highway. A little further up on this bank of structures was Grandpa's store, Jensen's Rock Shop and Metal Arts, which was packed floor to ceiling with knick-knacks and shells and rocks and all kinds of stuff.<br />
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Ethel and Carl Jensen, my grandparents pictured to the left below, lived in the front of an abandoned gas station. The room was very small and split down the middle by a beautiful wrought iron screen that my grandmother covered in fabric and used to divide the space into a kitchen-dining-music-study-living room and a bedroom-bathroom-closet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmD2GoaxXbPCDzWnIc-Q8ThFpdJc6TYJgxnhnrAcE4AIQOQXZgqMGQMkWW9q6H-5JRqhKFcU152kk9NFff1U0gZby0f3sBWiii4FvVOvJHhAxHbAsaXTcBMxHhzEavUkmk6n4kHUVURc/s1600/The+old+days+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmD2GoaxXbPCDzWnIc-Q8ThFpdJc6TYJgxnhnrAcE4AIQOQXZgqMGQMkWW9q6H-5JRqhKFcU152kk9NFff1U0gZby0f3sBWiii4FvVOvJHhAxHbAsaXTcBMxHhzEavUkmk6n4kHUVURc/s1600/The+old+days+006.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Grandma and Grampa are on the right, Aunt Uli's </i><br />
<i>mother </i><i>is in blue. There was an upright piano behind </i><br />
<i>my </i><i>Aunt Uli and Uncle Paul on the far left. </i><br />
<i>It now sits in my garage, neglected.</i></td></tr>
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The bedroom-bathroom-closet was fascinating. Their double bed took up the bulk of the room, leaving a little space for a dresser. The closet was the only thing in the space that was actually used as intended... it housed clothes, but it also was utilized as the bathroom and when you moved the clothes aside, there was a coffee can that doubled as a chamber pot.<br />
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The coffee can/chamber pot was the convenience because there was a bathroom that could be accessed by turning left outside Grandma's door, through the tunnel-like variegated metal-roofed workshop of my Grandpa's metal arts business, out the end door, down the staircase to the ground, and then wind your way around the green metal door of the cinderblock construction that was the public restroom of the original gas station.<br />
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It was a hike during the day, but at night... it was beyond scary to make that trek with a flashlight held in a shaky hand that made the situation worse by creating threatening, animated shadows from the stacks of metal and junk that would later be repurposed into art with form and function but that in the meantime, just looked like monsters ready to be awakened, hence the conveniently placed coffee-can-in-the-closet trick.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My childhood playground. (Click to Enlarge)</i></td></tr>
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The fourth home in our little roadside community was a place I never visited but was inhabited by a man I never saw but heard stories about him from my Grandpa and Dad. The tales of "Mr. Davis" only served to make him seem like the "troll under the bridge."<br />
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Mr. Davis– not his real name but the marker I hold in my memory when my mother is not present to correct me– was known for killing deer and not using the meat, which for my parents and grandparents who lived the struggle to keep food on the table, could not stomach such waste.<br />
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Whenever we saw the black shadow of the vultures, they seemed to glide ominously above the mysterious Davis' property and the rumors always came back to the same theme: "if you end up on the Davis land, he will shoot to kill."<br />
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These were the people who made up the human inhabitants of our neighborhood.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAPI6IvxMpk-ZHQjq8beBub5anHEpgNM2U1uQ_ButZGv2PPwD3o7dRMCjCzyGnY3JuMLoiZjfk9p8vUD3cdP6rsSMHVTJwoAbFj0-dq_LC72RTA8WUnPKkB0db-Yc5HYWIny1XK68_bY/s1600/darcy+scan1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAPI6IvxMpk-ZHQjq8beBub5anHEpgNM2U1uQ_ButZGv2PPwD3o7dRMCjCzyGnY3JuMLoiZjfk9p8vUD3cdP6rsSMHVTJwoAbFj0-dq_LC72RTA8WUnPKkB0db-Yc5HYWIny1XK68_bY/s1600/darcy+scan1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This was our front yard. Our front door was on this side of the tree.<br />Old Highway 101 was rerouted, which turned it into a short lane.<br />In 1984, reroute construction had just begun, instigated by the <br />Russian River washing out the road near FrogWoman Rock.</i></td></tr>
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In our old hotel, we housed many "non-human" residents. Most notably, hundreds and hundreds of bats.<br />
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At dusk, we would call out to the bats in the attic, sending them in a big black wave off into the sunset. This was our evening ritual.<br />
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Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Dad would jump around the room using a broom like a Louisville Slugger, swinging it through the air to knock a stray bat out of the ball park... or the window or possibly scare it back into the light fixture it crawled into from the attic. However it got into our room, it never ended happily for the bat, much to my sister's distress.<br />
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Debra is an Animal Rights Activist and when I think back to her reaction to animals dying, whether by cars on the highway, butchers who make house calls or by relatives ridding our home of pests, she did not tolerate this well at all. There were always tears and the end result was that the three of us spent some time attending funerals for any number of creatures big and small.<br />
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An unwelcome group of inhabitants were the bees. I remember my grandfather, Jeff Bradshaw, dressed in his big white beekeepers suit as he carried away a giant nest of honey bees that lived in the back corner of the roof. I could say he looked like an astronaut (if I knew that was a career option prior to 1968) as the flying trail of bees followed him and their home to his old white pickup.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I don't remember the fence, the paved road or the fruit</i><br />
<i>crates but this is the back of our home when mom and</i><br />
<i>I drove through the area in 1984.</i></td></tr>
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In the basement, the ground floor, we were very careful to check for Rattlers and black widows before exploring some of the darker corners as there were no steps up to a foundation. In these dark corners with dirt under our feet and cobwebs overhead, we found shelves of ancient mason jars filled with well preserved pickles and fruit. It looked like an abandoned laboratory to me and these were relics that were never disturbed.<br />
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My all-time favorite interlopers were the snowy owls that hooted from the tree near our third-story bedroom window. While reading bedtime stories from books my grandmother loved, she would pause and encourage us to go to the window and say "goodnight" to the owls.<br />
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Grandma's bedtime stories were the very best. The Wind in the Willows, Mother Goose and The Tail of Peter Rabbit were my favorites. After the story and the goodnight hugs and kisses, Grandma would tuck us into bed, turn out the light and leave us to our slumber with the snowy white owls gently who-who-ing us to sleep. It was the best of times.<br />
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It was the place where innocence lived. The place where my sister, brother and I were a wild tribe of children, animal rescuers, explorers... where the only rule was to be home by dinner or we wouldn't get to eat... before the Bat Massacre at Pieta Creek*, before we sought the fences and greener pastures in the suburbs of Seattle and then Ellensburg, before our family structure crumbled and before I learned the secrets I would keep from myself.<br />
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My grownup self knows that our world had to change. My parents weren't happy. But the child trapped inside me still cries at the ending of Mrs. Doubtfire.<br />
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<i>*Frog Woman Rock - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frog_Woman_Rock">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frog_Woman_Rock</a></i><br />
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<i>*The Bat Massacre at Pieta Creek was when my uncles and grandfathers came together and killed as many bats as they could by sweeping them out of the attic and throwing them against the front of the house until the pink plaster </i><i>siding was splattered and stained with rivulets of blood and the ground surrounding our front door was black and red welcome mat of mangled bat bodies. Some people believe that bats are a sign of goodness, health and luck. When things go wrong, it is said that the Bat Medicine is gone. <a href="http://symbolism.wikia.com/wiki/Bat">http://symbolism.wikia.com/wiki/Bat</a></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-64127368232854046402013-08-31T08:21:00.000-07:002013-08-31T21:05:09.945-07:00Seeing Singer Sargent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While I was in Chicago with my daughter, Courtney, we debated whether to visit the Museum of Modern Art or the Art Institute of Chicago. We would only be there for two days so if we wanted to see the city, we could only take time for one museum. We had to decide.<br />
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I chose the Art Institute of Chicago as soon as I realized they had several works by Cezanne. I have been studying his work lately and find it to be very intriguing. I knew this to be the right decision because after talking with some of the museum staff, we discovered they also have 6-8 John Singer Sargent Paintings on display.<br />
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That would be AMAZING! I have love, love, loved John Singer Sargent's work for like FOREVER! He was known for his ability to sketch with paint and the result was much like a finished work of art. This created some jealousy among his peers. Madam X, pictured below in its three different forms, was one of his most notorious pieces.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo of the 3 versions of Madam X from the Tate Museum</td></tr>
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I first saw Madam X at the Seattle Art Museum and was intrigued and in awe by Sargent's ability to create such a perfect painting. It was so long ago, and I actually think I saw the first version of this piece with the shoulder strap down. Madam X was not one of my favorite paintings but it had an impact on me because of the story and disapproval the painting received. I was surprised it didn't get great reviews. It is a pretty impressive work of art.<br />
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This painting was considered a scandalous entry when it was debuted at the Paris Salon of 1884 and originally was painted with one strap sliding off her shoulder. The reviews were terrible and consequently humiliated the subject, Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, who was a beautiful socialite in Paris society who used her femininity to advance her position and status. Although Madame Gautreau was famed for her infidelities, the scandal of the painting's reception did not work in her favor.<br />
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Eventually two other artists painted portraits of her that were similar in style, yet not nearly as dramatic, and were very well received by the art critics and the public. John Singer Sargent gave up his dream of becoming a famed portrait painter of Paris and moved to London where he continued to paint amazing portraits and became famed for this ability, despite the negative experience in Paris.<br />
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Since that long ago viewing and until this trip, I was only able to see John Singer Sargent's work through the internet and books.<br />
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Fast Forward to the Unexpected Chicago Visit, 2013.</h4>
Shortly after entering the Art Institute of Chicago, it became clear that it would take more than a week to explore all the art available for viewing.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We decided we had to pick up the pace and get moving if we were going to see the Singer Sargents... and a Cezanne... Dali... O'Keefe... Gauguin... Monet... Wood... Hokusai... oh Art Institute of Chicago you attention hog!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7qV4fAO8-ihh7z144Pt1ESVMAnqZvjJ97mKz3cZRpGOgWtccmgKQ9-ZwZclmeZ2r0xwQoVWPreH6MRmoTAZllPIceRCD9grLnX6y7pzGAEVaAlE5RoTvhjWJMOPlBOpRtYTNRwwJkd28/s1600/DSC_0123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7qV4fAO8-ihh7z144Pt1ESVMAnqZvjJ97mKz3cZRpGOgWtccmgKQ9-ZwZclmeZ2r0xwQoVWPreH6MRmoTAZllPIceRCD9grLnX6y7pzGAEVaAlE5RoTvhjWJMOPlBOpRtYTNRwwJkd28/s320/DSC_0123.JPG" width="320" /></a>This realization came after we spent a large amount of our time being amazed by the 68 piece Thorne Miniature Rooms Collection where Mrs. James Ward Thorne of Chicago constructed perfect miniature historical period rooms between 1932 and 1940 and where one foot equals one inch in scale, display after display amazed us both. (Yes, that is the Montgomery Ward family connection.) Mrs. Thorne directed the most talented craftsmen/women on every aspect of each display.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KPc_dl2cTyXLsWEyd6V8G1EQvfjRcSzli9SDT0vwY0atWSOaN4ruBSJCXJtfPudz7GXjyxHvU3CYFWodXTs_byc3GaXgJ4Tl5YrZKgv4WKhN8Wu0MUlPm-17qEANaTtKlCwY5J6PnJ0/s1600/DSC_0130_altered.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KPc_dl2cTyXLsWEyd6V8G1EQvfjRcSzli9SDT0vwY0atWSOaN4ruBSJCXJtfPudz7GXjyxHvU3CYFWodXTs_byc3GaXgJ4Tl5YrZKgv4WKhN8Wu0MUlPm-17qEANaTtKlCwY5J6PnJ0/s320/DSC_0130_altered.jpg" width="320" /></a>The amount of detail in each work was really accurate from the dishes on the shelves to the weave of the braided or Persian carpets to the teeny tiny toys scattered on the floor where children would have played had they been Lilliputians.<br />
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The rest of our visit seemed like a mad dash to the finish. There were complete buildings we didn't have time to explore on the campus. Next time.</div>
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Following are the paintings that I was so happy to see in person. I was surprised by the fact that we were allowed to take pictures of these paintings and that on more than one occasion, I was able to step right up and stand inches away from these great works.</div>
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These are the highlights:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FKWzd2Fs6duU0n07c85deYOGXPsRYjG-cv5Rw75I4afr_FCJPmzPPUZaf7yDM_dtrsxBBKDHw7rXJ4U8rMiUlsDZ3Z74iF-0fM_OsKlSaUNYLya2qgVCb5lqkDI1s872Mb8McpiaMXg/s1600/DSC_0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FKWzd2Fs6duU0n07c85deYOGXPsRYjG-cv5Rw75I4afr_FCJPmzPPUZaf7yDM_dtrsxBBKDHw7rXJ4U8rMiUlsDZ3Z74iF-0fM_OsKlSaUNYLya2qgVCb5lqkDI1s872Mb8McpiaMXg/s320/DSC_0151.JPG" width="320" /></a>Master printmaker Hokusai's Great Wave at Kanagawa is a stunning print and one of my son, Benjamin's favorites so, of course, I had to get a photo... or two. (Look how close I am to the art. I am feeling like someone should have run over and scolded me.)</div>
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Although Claude Monet is not my favorite artist, the Art Institute of Chicago has an impressive collection. The Haystack series is pretty interesting because it is several paintings of the same thing. Monet repeated his subject matter over and over.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6U7ifVBa16Gsp5g53fCrpJIkxz8mjaZ_q0MRkqG4-N2dA6Gv6Ge1fHw4W8R5JvokX81L-UXX7aTz0tgrFusUd-RqGTbwp3BIiP5og6BWvnUyMxh0MJggAvEFZNoRf0zZOFIpxfW_hEkU/s1600/Monet_Haystacks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6U7ifVBa16Gsp5g53fCrpJIkxz8mjaZ_q0MRkqG4-N2dA6Gv6Ge1fHw4W8R5JvokX81L-UXX7aTz0tgrFusUd-RqGTbwp3BIiP5og6BWvnUyMxh0MJggAvEFZNoRf0zZOFIpxfW_hEkU/s640/Monet_Haystacks.jpg" width="600" /></a></div>
While wandering through the different rooms, for a moment, I thought we had walked into the same gallery we had just been in, because I was seeing the lilies again. The Art Institute had... 30 or more Monets.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSVyGNg1LUBaF91T1sxllxl4osa057t1NRkKwlTAxAZx4w5KHt1hY1X0EOHpgTz_VmWYGsebQaTzYICJHtxjJQ7v-9s3UxVNJsbA_4u14LY6tTNrG6KZJmeO-gw1O2fqA4AyaZt0Xoqk/s1600/Tehamana+has+Many+Ancestors_1893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSVyGNg1LUBaF91T1sxllxl4osa057t1NRkKwlTAxAZx4w5KHt1hY1X0EOHpgTz_VmWYGsebQaTzYICJHtxjJQ7v-9s3UxVNJsbA_4u14LY6tTNrG6KZJmeO-gw1O2fqA4AyaZt0Xoqk/s200/Tehamana+has+Many+Ancestors_1893.jpg" width="152" /></a>Tehamana Has Many Ancestors, 1893, by Paul Gauguin is a beautiful painting. I love everything about it. The design of the background, the uncomfortable pose, the striped dress, the lighting.<br />
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In 2012, before I went to Denmark I saw an extensive showing of Gauguin's work at the Seattle Art Museum. It was really a beautiful display of his many talents as an artist, printmaker, and carver.<br />
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When I visited the Glyptotek across from Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen, the woman said it was a shame I hadn't come at a different time because their extensive Gauguin Collection was in Seattle.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB26HfiWMPXDxuc81n8JF41sPqegd2nOn18Qg0IsHv8urMe5XtjYRikEPsdqbn8t5blE6KivGFQj7ZvSe0fVhTunGzxsLP7Ug_O1-qBN8F_vnT1NQHTIv-U6uyHCcOmySwLYxawNst44A/s1600/The+Basket+of+Apples_1893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB26HfiWMPXDxuc81n8JF41sPqegd2nOn18Qg0IsHv8urMe5XtjYRikEPsdqbn8t5blE6KivGFQj7ZvSe0fVhTunGzxsLP7Ug_O1-qBN8F_vnT1NQHTIv-U6uyHCcOmySwLYxawNst44A/s400/The+Basket+of+Apples_1893.jpg" width="400" /></a>Paul Cezanne is another favorite that I am just now discovering. Seeing The Basket of Apples, 1893, was a kind of a thrill, I have to admit. I was totally an art nerd and Courtney just laughed as we discovered new treasures around every corner.<br />
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Van Gogh's Grapes, Lemons, Pear, and Apples, 1887 is one I have not seen before. I think that most of the time, the famed painters of the past have a handful of art they are known for, but when you dig deeper, you find treasures that surprise. With Van Gogh we are so used to seeing the self-portraits and the brighter colored works.<br />
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Talouse Latrec, Equestrienne, 1888. I love this.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">John Singer Sargent</span><br />
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Okay, finally, the reason for this post: John Singer Sargent and what I love about his artwork.<br />
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Mrs. George Swinton, 1897<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0zWadoloe3ILSqzzE3K-5EXhTsrlkw1BxvJCh07BR8HNzjhtsnYZ_diiuiJtcnB3P7ksTHed6MIAhTiQ1Ehp_rNN3YddtN4rqbemkeDMf441FY9qWyzQCLK82xZPgWpi2dmDk5IwMCU/s1600/Mrs+George+Swinton+1897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0zWadoloe3ILSqzzE3K-5EXhTsrlkw1BxvJCh07BR8HNzjhtsnYZ_diiuiJtcnB3P7ksTHed6MIAhTiQ1Ehp_rNN3YddtN4rqbemkeDMf441FY9qWyzQCLK82xZPgWpi2dmDk5IwMCU/s640/Mrs+George+Swinton+1897.jpg" width="380" /></a>First of all, his skin tones are beautiful. He puts the delicate pinks in the right places and highlights are subtle but add a richness and reality to the subjects features.<br />
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When he paints the hands, Sargent uses just a few strokes and the hands look natural and realistic, but when close up, I see the strokes and the changes are just varying hues of light and dark.<br />
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The fabric is masterful. He has an amazing ability to capture the light and shadow and nature of certain fabrics and how they bend. Also, the satin and taffeta are reflecting perfectly where the cloth rises and folds. The sheer quality of the left sleeve is lovely. Up close it looks like a jumble of paint strokes.<br />
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Mrs. George Swinton was huge, over 90 inches high. I loved seeing this painting in person.<br />
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I took many many more pictures at this museum and, as you know, I can go on and on about these artsy experiences.<br />
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So I will wrap this up and say that I am thankful my daughter brought me along on this impromptu trip to Iowa and I loved it that we somehow ended up in Chicago. I saw 6 paintings of my favorite painter and so much more.<br />
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I love Chicago!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-22406841821425797612013-08-17T22:23:00.001-07:002013-08-18T01:05:39.823-07:00Reassessing Renoir<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Art Institute of Chicago is a wonderful place to explore. I believe it would take a few weeks of daily visits to see everything there is to see, but still that wouldn't leave time to actually study the works on display.<br />
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While in Iowa finishing up our visit to the town of our family origins, Courtney and I were studying a map and trying to figure out where we would be for the next few days. We discovered that Chicago was pretty close and right next to Chicago was a Great Lake... Michigan to be exact.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyY19KLivM_Qs6fTizTX5k-OKW9X9wwDfhjMmFishK9B9PzbFwZK7Pq76ftOUaMHnIjTSeHVlsd9TGUL0AOtoi8Dp0LQ4RDNmK7yOqdgXjF7uWTDEYzcP6qDuk27ARzxd0aXJuLM2X0k/s1600/mississippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyY19KLivM_Qs6fTizTX5k-OKW9X9wwDfhjMmFishK9B9PzbFwZK7Pq76ftOUaMHnIjTSeHVlsd9TGUL0AOtoi8Dp0LQ4RDNmK7yOqdgXjF7uWTDEYzcP6qDuk27ARzxd0aXJuLM2X0k/s1600/mississippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyY19KLivM_Qs6fTizTX5k-OKW9X9wwDfhjMmFishK9B9PzbFwZK7Pq76ftOUaMHnIjTSeHVlsd9TGUL0AOtoi8Dp0LQ4RDNmK7yOqdgXjF7uWTDEYzcP6qDuk27ARzxd0aXJuLM2X0k/s320/mississippi.jpg" width="320" /></a>We dipped our toes in the Mississippi, why not a Great Lake? Asking that question is how we ended up at the Art Institute of Chicago.<br />
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I am a graduate of the Art Institute of Seattle and I don't remember ever seeing an art museum on campus. It was the early 90's, but still, I did think all the Art Institutes were connected and that you could easily transfer from one school to the next and still get the same education and the same opportunities. After seeing the massively amazing Art Institute of Chicago, I have decided one is not interchangeable with the next.<br />
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While dashing around looking at all the displays, I stumbled upon a Renoir. It was somewhere between the Talouse Latrec pieces and the Salvador Dali offerings. This made me pause. I have heard some criticism towards the inclusion of Auguste Pierre Renoir into the Great Masters of Art for his Impressionist Paintings.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Auguste Pierre Renoir,</b> 1841–1919) was a French artist who was a leading painter in the development of the Impressionist style. As a celebrator of beauty, and especially feminine sensuality, it has been said that "Renoir is the final representative of a tradition which runs directly from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rubens</span> to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial;">Watteau</span>." <i>Wikipedia</i></span></span></blockquote>
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Let us look for a moment at a comparison within this tradition from Rubens to Watteau (click on the painting to enlarge):<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Girl with a Watering Can</i>,<br />
1876, Auguste Pierre Renoir</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOb_sbKAxuudnnaNP5CJ78_SmFsBEcgPe0MyPcKGI1qZRK0nr5JR-3Vob9DawQLCv4Pq3LTzDOm7rHlcwRKUiLj4TJZHjd6JLqcVDJp18evqpr0ojiCTqocOV61aZvmVctrNFdYqNTLk0/s1600/Peter_Paul_Rubens_105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOb_sbKAxuudnnaNP5CJ78_SmFsBEcgPe0MyPcKGI1qZRK0nr5JR-3Vob9DawQLCv4Pq3LTzDOm7rHlcwRKUiLj4TJZHjd6JLqcVDJp18evqpr0ojiCTqocOV61aZvmVctrNFdYqNTLk0/s200/Peter_Paul_Rubens_105.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Honeysuckle Bower</i>,<br />
1609, Peter Paul Rubens</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Commedia dell' Arte</i>,<br />
1718-19, Antoine Watteau</td></tr>
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I do not understand how the Renoir is "the final representative of a tradition which runs directly from Rubens to Watteau." I really would like to know how these paintings are linked and what tradition is this quote in reference to?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGj_wlNjxSwU6nPSn0fJDC8NfI40AaZ8Wa0wRGGtZGNuOlDcVjePC5HzF5fkeuq8HfJtjhDO88n8I_aDqAk9byqxbtnocM9BVrKYClLq2UW7xZYSzIi5RbubIFmVNV47Sk3SuHet5N5U/s1600/Madame+Leon+Clapisson+1883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGj_wlNjxSwU6nPSn0fJDC8NfI40AaZ8Wa0wRGGtZGNuOlDcVjePC5HzF5fkeuq8HfJtjhDO88n8I_aDqAk9byqxbtnocM9BVrKYClLq2UW7xZYSzIi5RbubIFmVNV47Sk3SuHet5N5U/s320/Madame+Leon+Clapisson+1883.jpg" width="258" /></a>Renoir is an impressionist painter, Watteau was into Rococo, and Rubens was Baroque. I suppose we could draw a line from the exacting work of Rubens to the less exacting style of Watteau and then ultimately to the Renoir as the style loosens considerably from the other two.<br />
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I find this interesting, and yet I do not know the answer.<br />
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Feel free to chime in.<br />
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<i>Madame Leon Clapisson</i>, 1883<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-13730261811275427792013-08-12T22:05:00.002-07:002013-08-18T01:03:50.000-07:00Quick Question!<br />
Does it seem odd to anyone else to drive halfway across one farming state and only see two different crops?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZoFq5_ilHGjx8hvMHqusIrrhqK08kUpaTXTmOS9LxX6_8oMB8wSq_8BivM03tB8Pt5bSKYjF4XiU2vwYWToghLRRtaWKbBQWpjiwzrlHHTWeqC10JXcMGUFTn0iUqpRH0UvjrTjLid4/s1600/DSC_0378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZoFq5_ilHGjx8hvMHqusIrrhqK08kUpaTXTmOS9LxX6_8oMB8wSq_8BivM03tB8Pt5bSKYjF4XiU2vwYWToghLRRtaWKbBQWpjiwzrlHHTWeqC10JXcMGUFTn0iUqpRH0UvjrTjLid4/s640/DSC_0378.JPG" width="600" /></a></div>
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Recently, my daughter and I went to Iowa and while we were there, we saw some lovely scenery, historic sights and a whole lot of corn. Scattered throughout some of these massive corn fields were smaller crops of soy beans.<br />
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It was pretty amazing to me, growing up in a farming community like Ellensburg I saw a diversity of crops from corn, alfalfa, hay, wheat, cherries and apples. I never really thought about how a farming state could become singularly motivated, so while I was in Iowa, I learned about corn.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBPlWbP7lUD7h6JZQxIZZu1CXw1NMLABlBwDYyKBupdtDo9nBHdWNJlEu9ktzuy4jY-Il9KtJe1EFhgOsll9mGKsco9gEFwgIa4Y56syLGJFx7pMeik7R1W3hfr06pSmBrldEa-Pnt6I/s1600/DSC_0783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBPlWbP7lUD7h6JZQxIZZu1CXw1NMLABlBwDYyKBupdtDo9nBHdWNJlEu9ktzuy4jY-Il9KtJe1EFhgOsll9mGKsco9gEFwgIa4Y56syLGJFx7pMeik7R1W3hfr06pSmBrldEa-Pnt6I/s320/DSC_0783.JPG" width="320" /></a>I already knew a little about subsidies to farmers, but I needed a lot more information. Following, is a very brief and somewhat vague version of the subsidy program in a wild walnut shell:<br />
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The subsidy programs give farmers extra money for their crops and guarantees a price floor... meaning the price will not drop below a predetermined price, ensuring farmers can continue to survive during the leanest of times. This sounds like a pretty good way to keep farmers farming so they can continue to feed the masses.<br />
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In 2006, farmers were paid $40,000 per person on the farm or $80,000 per couple, depending on their crop, of course.<br />
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The top three states receiving subsidies are Texas, Iowa and Illinois. Iowa recieves 9% of its farming income from subisdies. "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">The Total USDA Subsidies from farms in Iowa totaled $1,212,000,000 in 2006." Wikipedia. (This represents 2% of the state's population that continues to farm.)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The largest soy bean field we saw. Corn on the horizon.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"></span>Today, as it turns out, Iowa farmers are getting rich. The corn prices have skyrocketed, and consequently, the subsidies keep coming because they are not dependent on how high or low the farmer's income happens to be at any particular time. What matters, is that the subsidies keep the farmers farming so the Agri-Business thrives, corn additives can continue to lure shoppers to market for high calorie packaged food, cattle can consume more corn-feed, and ethanol can keep engines running.<br />
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Also, another side benefit is that the U.S. can sell more crops and be more competitive in the World Market, thus making it difficult for farmers in developing countries to attain economic growth. As you may have guessed, the U.S. Agriculture Subsidy Program is very controversial. (I do not guarantee the accuracy of my facts.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tassel - The Male Part of Corn</td></tr>
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Back to the Corn! What you see in this picture is the plant that is cultivated for next year's corn feed crop. The top of the corn stalk is called the tassel. This is the male part of the plant. The ear is the female part.<br />
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While we were learning about corn, the kids in Central Iowa, were already shoulder-deep in the De-tasseling season. What happens during de-tasseling is that the tassels of the crop are removed and then every other row is pulled so that alternating rows contain a male plant with tassels in tact and a female plant containing ears. The silk grows out of the ear and is pollinated by the tassel. This tiring job can earn the de-tasselers about $12-15 per hour. (Thats better than some graphic designers earn after years of expensive un-subsidized education.)<br />
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De-tasseling was primarily a line of work filled by the children of the community but as times change, the kids are opting out, forcing farmers to hire seasonal workers. This change in the workforce then has implications and impact on several other interesting and controversial subjects such as migrant farm-worker's conditions, corruption, undocumented workers, minimum wage, and labor disputes. (Fodder for another post, I am sure.)<br />
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Anyway, back to America's crop, the tassels pollinate the ears and voila, up to 1000 embryos can be created on each ear of corn, thus creating the seeds for next year. So this cornfield like many of the fields we saw while traveling through Iowa, were planted just to make seeds in a cross-pollination process that most likely was genetically altered in some way to become a super-all-powerful-death-defying-uber-amazing corn plant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljw06CTfW0GhUDwuASsueJ5r-oDoslwfRQNJUKs8wsbI48q2_oiRdjsiFIKnwUEOU1Xv6_j9_YiDtbSW7vN__WVHYqAS2VIj7WaCt6V6xYVMJvEHdDGjbNY7isEzkeN0E75rTOykbbtw/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljw06CTfW0GhUDwuASsueJ5r-oDoslwfRQNJUKs8wsbI48q2_oiRdjsiFIKnwUEOU1Xv6_j9_YiDtbSW7vN__WVHYqAS2VIj7WaCt6V6xYVMJvEHdDGjbNY7isEzkeN0E75rTOykbbtw/s640/DSC_0372.JPG" width="600" /></a></div>
Just look at these stalks. They were all so green and thriving that it was a little weird. Field after field as far as the eye can see. It really was a beautiful sight and I found myself wanting to sing our National Anthem on more than one occasion. Instead, Courtney and I ignored the "No Trespassing" signs and stepped into.... a cornfield!<br />
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I would like to point out, for the record, nothing bad happened in our cornfield. I have heard that "nothing good happens in corn fields."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPeqznvVHFe-rV3_wvt1K7_BzwrNfCfu09eBSmI54-mzAnuDOPHTYpirFMNbnPaZoTjQ5lJGs96lzsRAbcxkewGZpAG_B7cp76LmDKTwzvzPp4Jop7Q8MzTeSc7OMgrMjcEeJCdKO0Vk/s1600/DSC_0436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPeqznvVHFe-rV3_wvt1K7_BzwrNfCfu09eBSmI54-mzAnuDOPHTYpirFMNbnPaZoTjQ5lJGs96lzsRAbcxkewGZpAG_B7cp76LmDKTwzvzPp4Jop7Q8MzTeSc7OMgrMjcEeJCdKO0Vk/s320/DSC_0436.JPG" width="208" /></a>The best fact I learned about corn came from our friend John. "Each kernel on the ear is represented by a strand of silk. If the silk strand gets damaged, it will create a hole where the kernel should have been."<br />
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Question? Have you ever wondered why some kernels of corn were collapsed when you peeled back the husk?<br />
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Now you know. I love this fact. It made me very happy to learn this little bit of corn trivia! This info, although important to a farmer and genetic engineer, is not useful to me which is why I will remember it forever. Thank you, John.<br />
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I had a great time in Iowa. We spent some time with friends, which was really the best time and we learned quite a bit about the state of our ancestors.<br />
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I was able to help Joan a bit with her wedding plans for her daughter who will be married later this coming weekend, which brought to mind my daughter's wedding that we celebrated a few days ago.<br />
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Some of the sights that will stay etched in my mind: The wild walnut trees and beautiful purple flowers growing in a field near burial mounds that made me pause, feeling sadness for the extinct Indian tribes of Iowa.<br />
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Near the Iowa River I saw amazing vines growing from the trees and walked across the muddy water on an old train trestle while intoxicated inter-tubers floated below.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSm0_c9YKmlenPvGyJF4Q3F1ICKYBO0lPSO3LqbWi0T6KENjRwDXFtrphTXj1O_jqOFElImxiJZkv6Df0ABiW9sZT96a-49YEmU8LME0HTt10ViqcqRE6Ej7iqNLEqErLZahyphenhyphenPrNGFHgs/s1600/DSC_0471_crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSm0_c9YKmlenPvGyJF4Q3F1ICKYBO0lPSO3LqbWi0T6KENjRwDXFtrphTXj1O_jqOFElImxiJZkv6Df0ABiW9sZT96a-49YEmU8LME0HTt10ViqcqRE6Ej7iqNLEqErLZahyphenhyphenPrNGFHgs/s200/DSC_0471_crop.jpg" width="130" /></a>Our friends shared, their families, the fruits of the garden, love and prayers.<br />
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Our friends in Grundy Center and Steamboat Rock are the BEST!<br />
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As I sit here in my home, drinking a glass of my favorite wine, I offer a toast, and a team meeting to our friends. Have a joyful celebration this weekend and thank you for the wonderful memories. Good times.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-11039374327993241972013-06-21T14:52:00.002-07:002013-06-23T19:05:04.067-07:00Post Pierce PromulgationI am now two weeks out the other side of finishing my time at Pierce College. Whew!<br />
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I have discovered many things about myself throughout this "Back to School Journey" and some of these things surprise me. <br />
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A few of my personal and educational discoveries are:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcoLqyX6nFeRguimgCVcnYqztHs1VHhWhsPJlQxHWhh5nGb7XNYn7x7Glmy_JYO5O6w1gcOviWemZ4WNl4vP3GceKXfVvMs0MIds5qQ2A5Goe-oL8q5vq40wzkkcALONGujAQYXLUMJE/s1600/ocean_musings2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcoLqyX6nFeRguimgCVcnYqztHs1VHhWhsPJlQxHWhh5nGb7XNYn7x7Glmy_JYO5O6w1gcOviWemZ4WNl4vP3GceKXfVvMs0MIds5qQ2A5Goe-oL8q5vq40wzkkcALONGujAQYXLUMJE/s320/ocean_musings2.jpg" width="320" /></a>
<li><span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>From Point A to Point B, I like to finish things </b></span><span style="color: white;">- I have a bit of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). You might have noticed that characteristic while reading my blogs. I like to number them... or alphabetize my entries. In my Design 220 class, we were required to blog on all of our projects (<a href="http://darcyclinedesign.blogspot.com/">darcyclinedesign.blogspot.com</a>). I felt compelled to tie in my blogs numerically in relationship to the assignment number. </span></span><span style="color: white;"><br /><br />Or maybe you noticed a rainbow colored headline series or the fact that I have sections in my library that are arranged by subject, alphabetically or that I am bothered if things don't line up for one reason or another? (The line-up issue can cause my husband to sigh and carry on.)</span><span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /><br />Another OCD sign for me is once I start a book, I feel I have to finish it. About ten years ago I was reading a novel and it was very poorly written. I threw it away. (I know, I haven't really let that go but I am prepared to throw another novel away if it is that bad. I just choose my reading more carefully now.) <br /><br />The Completion compulsion worked very well for me, as it usually does. I finished school and now have an AA in Digital Design to add to my list of accomplishments. (Okay, I still have paperwork to do... I'll get there. Procrastination... yes I could have made this blog about that.)</span><br /> </span><b> </b></span></li>
<li><span style="color: blue;"><b>I didn't enjoy going back to school</b></span> - This one was a shock for me. I love learning and enjoyed taking continuing ed classes, so when I was attending school full time again, I didn't relish it in the way I thought I would. This possibility never occurred to me. I just always thought it would be fun. As it turns out, it was difficult and oftentimes a very lonely experience. I spent so much time and energy on school, that I didn't socialize with my friends, family events suffered because homework deadlines loomed, I didn't reach out to other students and the stress of all of this made me sick. Going back to school was definitely one of the most difficult things I have done.</li>
<li><b><span style="color: purple;">My Invisibility Shield worked against me</span></b> - Like a Hobbit in the presence of a Goblin, I have an uncanny ability to be<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4s8FyE6EjZxA4JKTNCHjmOdO1NVp-ku1AnpGtijGi065aSWtbz8c6AUy2rJJfXYfLcRcuhY3919sRUsK-hjJBBDxoN71gOAfyaUnGzLNjrsU-CIx4fpkxIGbVFsCNs7LJADDVJcoyJAY/s1600/thehobbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4s8FyE6EjZxA4JKTNCHjmOdO1NVp-ku1AnpGtijGi065aSWtbz8c6AUy2rJJfXYfLcRcuhY3919sRUsK-hjJBBDxoN71gOAfyaUnGzLNjrsU-CIx4fpkxIGbVFsCNs7LJADDVJcoyJAY/s200/thehobbit.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Freeman in the Hobbit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
invisible in some social situations. I can figuratively disappear. This is actually a good skill to have when danger is present. Not so helpful when you need attention for one reason or another. I am not a squeaky wheel so there were times my comments or questions would trail off into the ether never to be seen or heard from again. Also, due to my tendency towards insomnia and the overwhelming homework load, I didn't always have the energy to retract the Invisibility.</li>
<li><b><span style="color: #990000;">I love painting </span></b>- Drawing was something that came naturally to me and at times, I didn't value that talent. I thought of drawing as this skill I possessed that others wanted to see but that the emotional toll of drawing was pretty heavy and so over the years I have spent less and less time drawing to the point of almost forgetting how to do it. The attention to detail and need for perfection smothered me at times.<br /><br />In the Fall of 2011, I enrolled late at Pierce College and the only classes available were a managing online classes class, a design guidelines course Beginning Digital Photography and Beginning Painting.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPA6iBjK45USxNfmuPle5umExyb1aljIFI5xumBf599jKY5QBMyn1BIL3yAyn9O4RkzHmYIPL8jben-adVOer2ZUbc-8RnQl9H-8AmFBnqU9eJ_cVPwd7AbrEpG8STiY4SUZZYrG7LuQg/s200/Yellow+Pots.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNnvLb6Y4N5MBDkiCM6mHqI74WzIN8dkjJnk4xH20b3cXQCY-1K8lBgcN_XQh1MwtKubt1gV8cbxZmBXhTw-ShdnJaofDWLgHUHPSY-X3-aI362dcKcKOZF1Vh3s9OjHDvNxSKjnN_Uo/s1600/Still+Life+with+Glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNnvLb6Y4N5MBDkiCM6mHqI74WzIN8dkjJnk4xH20b3cXQCY-1K8lBgcN_XQh1MwtKubt1gV8cbxZmBXhTw-ShdnJaofDWLgHUHPSY-X3-aI362dcKcKOZF1Vh3s9OjHDvNxSKjnN_Uo/s200/Still+Life+with+Glass.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br />In Dave Roholt's painting class, I found a love of acrylic painting. I had no idea this would be true. I remember that first painting, the purple blue and yellow still life. I worried over the details so much that by the time I was ready to do my second painting, Still Life with Glass, I was so over-thinking that it would take me forever because I am a detail freak, that Dave suggested painting with the large brush and go in detail at the very end. That was brilliant! I didn't end up using any of the small brushes and I was happy with the results. It was freeing to be released from the pressure I felt when wielding a pencil. As a result of this discovery, my artwork has appeared in three Art Gallery shows and two publications. One of my paintings (actually three), The Blue Room Triptych, is hanging in the Pierce College Puyallup Library. I am happy to be a painter.</li>
<li><span style="color: #e69138;"><b>Hate is too strong for Math</b></span> - Weird, I know. I wouldn't go so far as to say I like math, but I don't hate it anymore. There were times in my math classes that I actually looked forward to some of the exercises. (Lining up all those numbers was a very OCD fix moment for me.)<br /><br />When I took my college assessment test, I thought the results were amazing. I earned my usual good marks for the English and Writing and was not required to take more classes in these subjects, but when I looked at the notes from the test evaluator, I was shocked. I got a 54 in math? What? Half of the questions on the test, I didn't even understand. I checked D for many of the multiple choice and didn't answer some problems that I couldn't comprehend what the question was asking me to do. And I got a 54. Wow, I thought that test was so messed up.<br /><br />Later when I was registering for classes, my adviser mentioned that I didn't have to take any math because I fulfilled that requirement with my BA in 1987. I thought, regardless of the test results, I should sign up for a math just so I know how to solve basic problems. So I said, "I got a 54 on my math test, but I still think I should enroll in a basic course so I can take the Business Math." I then showed him my Compass Test Results. <br /><br />He laughed and said, "that is the class they are recommending you start with." <br /><br />I qualified for math 54. What is that 5th Grade? <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGv2qAXaTB7_B3TaNn_yt2EtdFzmvz4JDIasNUbbbbxP9T520ag8dmjK9n2m5sAkpiH-Sv8EuPxOA7dWDpc8qIhUugFE9pPeKYXeyOy15aWn25M7iSHS-YSf2DpdIf81jRi-F-5M6YbM/s1600/1969-1972_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGv2qAXaTB7_B3TaNn_yt2EtdFzmvz4JDIasNUbbbbxP9T520ag8dmjK9n2m5sAkpiH-Sv8EuPxOA7dWDpc8qIhUugFE9pPeKYXeyOy15aWn25M7iSHS-YSf2DpdIf81jRi-F-5M6YbM/s200/1969-1972_2.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My siblings and me somewhere <br />
between 1969-1972. (Possibly in <br />
5th grade and I am not holding <br />
a math book)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now, that made more sense. So I proceeded to take math 54 and then skipped to 107, because there was no way I was taking math 54, 60, 95, and 98 just so I could take 107-Business Math, which is recommended for the Digital Design degree. No Way!<br /><br />I made it through both 54 and 107, although my family might disagree with the fact that I don't hate it. There were a lot of tears and frustration when I thought I would never get it. But thanks to the patience and calm demeanor of my husband, Gerard-The-Amazing-Math-Tutor and the empathy and compassion of my son, Benjamin, also not a lover of math, I got most of it, and that is good enough for math, in my world. </li>
<li><b><span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">I am a Print-maker</span> </span></b>- This one is right up there with being a Painter. I enjoy printmaking to the point of wanting to have my own press... in my very own art studio. I would willingly give someone who donated a print press to my cause, a print from every run I made until that print press or I broke down. Any takers?<br /><br />I didn't actually register for a printmaking class when I was introduced to the fine art of Printmaking. I was in the intermediate drawing class... yes, I took intermediate drawing to reconnect and make peace with my drawing skills. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM-BXIP_5h6zIxCDFqkXd7qG08cK-Y6UNXYz1BIziWjRzVowTfo7KcON1s2DIdhjGi3vtfFQmVqioGFjGr78kk_nfloh_xsZ5jpslhRQpJOkWcnqBJMfHERHKmTpipWW2m4sQXbUBWho/s1600/DSC_0528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM-BXIP_5h6zIxCDFqkXd7qG08cK-Y6UNXYz1BIziWjRzVowTfo7KcON1s2DIdhjGi3vtfFQmVqioGFjGr78kk_nfloh_xsZ5jpslhRQpJOkWcnqBJMfHERHKmTpipWW2m4sQXbUBWho/s320/DSC_0528.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the Roadside, Graphite, 2012</td></tr>
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What is funny about this, is that I used the class to explore other forms of medium besides graphite and really, aside from my daily sketchbook assignments and a live model session in which I used my left hand, I only created one finished pencil drawing.<br /><br />One of our assignments in this class was to create a solar print. This process required me to draw in order to have the design for the print. I came to print day completely unprepared and did a quick sketch, which turned out okay and gave me something to work with. I was thinking this printing process was a lot of work and that I wouldn't want to continue so whatever I came up with was fine.<br /><br />A funny thing happened. I discovered I liked the process.<br /><br />How many steps does it take to make one solar print?:<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<ul>
<li>Drawing. Check. </li>
<li>Copy of art onto a transparency. Check. </li>
<li>The image transparency is attached to the solar plate and then exposed to ultra-violet light. Check. </li>
<li>Don
protective vinyl gloves to wash the chemical emulsion off the plate
until the image is apparent and the chemicals are gone. Check. </li>
<li>Let the plate harden. Check. </li>
<li>Soak the print paper. Check.</li>
<li>Don different gloves. Check. </li>
<li>Set up an inking station. Mix the ink with Easy Wipe to make it more pliable. This is called warming the ink. Check. </li>
<li>Apply the ink to the etched plate. Check. </li>
<li>Rub it into the etched areas with a wad of tulle. Check. </li>
<li>Wipe the plate with a taffeta to achieve an even tone in the blank areas. Check. </li>
<li>Clean up the plate edges and wipe away any stray ink on the back or sides of the solar plate. </li>
<li>Check. Lay the plate on the print bed. Check. </li>
<li>Remove gloves. Check.</li>
<li>Pat dry a sheet of paper and lay it over the top of the plate, careful to center the paper over the plate. Check.</li>
<li>Roll the print through the press. Check.</li>
<li>Move the print to the drying rack to dry... for at least 24 hours. Check.</li>
<li>Wipe the print bed clean. Check</li>
<li>Begin the process again from step 6. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQd7geThNaX5RjW3opxEnTjW-WXT52Br6eJFwmK-Z85qYwyd0-YRPhkVe_kGW3dCZj3UOPPXkMr3FO3Dw5-QOqseHv_pNoQWkf7wSJWM_GxO46zTOzPf4a8xLGirUXVQ9vgksef9ALXw/s1600/Playa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQd7geThNaX5RjW3opxEnTjW-WXT52Br6eJFwmK-Z85qYwyd0-YRPhkVe_kGW3dCZj3UOPPXkMr3FO3Dw5-QOqseHv_pNoQWkf7wSJWM_GxO46zTOzPf4a8xLGirUXVQ9vgksef9ALXw/s320/Playa.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first print ever, "Playa."</td></tr>
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I
realize this is an art form that is about the process. I decided I like
processes. When I quit drinking coffee, I missed the steps required to
prepare coffee. I enjoy juicing, cutting produce, placing it in the
juicer, and cleaning my machine.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I rarely vary my steps
in these processes and do the same actions in the same order.
(Reference my first discovery of this blog post.) It made sense and I
really do like the results. Over my almost two year time at Pierce
College I have made many prints.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My last quarter, I
finished nine different prints when my requirement was to do four. I do
love it. You can view some of my latest prints and other artwork at <a href="http://darcyclinedesign.com/">darcyclinedesign.com</a>.</div>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><b>I prefer to connect with people</b></span> - This is one I already knew. I do like
making connections and learning about the people I have interactions
with on a regular basis. By isolating myself at the beginning of this
educational journey, I denied myself something that I feel is essential
to my well-being.<br /><br />"I am a people-person." I have heard folks say
this over and over, but for me it is not a cliche. I am. I like knowing
how people feel about any given subject. When a classmate says
something, appropriate or not, I want to explore the comment and find
out why they said it or what it means.<br /><br />Winter quarter, my second to last quarter at Pierce, after returning from the Students of Color Conference and connecting with my co-workers, Megan and Arsenio, among many others, <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibH4MSbdEgmia9h0zWMHaRpzY02-XipvP2YE8fcvj2s9K-394vGvNo15XG4s_lQn8kguedFCRhSlyujTrd5T_CEidyKxVEVzMWpIQgUzBXi-JhaqriIMvVbKyOIa-B_4u-UmfDp8-5ITU/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibH4MSbdEgmia9h0zWMHaRpzY02-XipvP2YE8fcvj2s9K-394vGvNo15XG4s_lQn8kguedFCRhSlyujTrd5T_CEidyKxVEVzMWpIQgUzBXi-JhaqriIMvVbKyOIa-B_4u-UmfDp8-5ITU/s320/DSC_0064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arsenio Lopez, III and Megan Hamilton giving me a hand.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I realized I was missing this major part of who I am. I finally took the time to look beyond my overwhelming stress levels to build relationships with a few of the students I spent time with every day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
Whether studying with my classmates or chatting with my coworkers, this made my last few quarters so much better, despite continuing to feel overwhelmed. Live and learn... another cliche.</div>
</li>
</ol>
I learned so much more than I have promulgated in this post, but I feel if you made it to this point, I owe it to you to wrap it up. <br />
<br />
This was a huge learning experience for me and although I am finally done with school... I can't help but wonder if I should look into getting my Masters in Fine Art. Hmmm, being a student wasn't that hard....<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-33429647018675798242013-04-27T01:18:00.002-07:002013-04-27T13:34:11.413-07:00Out with the Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_cbH-KgHqItHV6-BVM2LIBU8RB_u8myxW4DR_3VN1g8K13XPp3UiU40jhzPJTt-wT5F1QcaCz9st8A1yMLm0V23ye7DxBS-g7eZZf3jB2uVUj17PzLlX441lOpnwV_b0PVbATC_reZQ/s1600/newglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_cbH-KgHqItHV6-BVM2LIBU8RB_u8myxW4DR_3VN1g8K13XPp3UiU40jhzPJTt-wT5F1QcaCz9st8A1yMLm0V23ye7DxBS-g7eZZf3jB2uVUj17PzLlX441lOpnwV_b0PVbATC_reZQ/s200/newglasses.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Hipsters! Consider yourselves served. I would like it to be known... I picked up my new glasses this week. (These spectacles are reminiscent of my glasses from 1993.) The fact that I have these glasses is the sign for all Trenders to move on to the next big thing. It's like when the crocuses pop up as the first sign of spring.<br />
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<div>
I find I often come to trends on the tail end or well past the trend arc. I was the next-to-the-last person to get a cell phone. (The last person was my brother-in-law.) I only caved in to the cell phone thing when my car broke down in the fall of 1990 and I was 40 miles away from everyone I knew. It was freezing and I had a parakeet in the car. A nice man stopped and asked if I needed a ride and I said "no, but can you call my husband from your cell phone?" That was a little pathetic. Nice man called. Husband rescued me. The bird lived.</div>
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<div>
To prove my theory, witness my recent discovery of flaxseed. I just started using it and I found out a few days later that flaxseed is out and chia seeds are in. (I know, flaxseed has been around for a few years but see, this is what this post is about. Me discovering things later. Like The Police. I found them after they split up and I decided I liked Sting anyway...a very controversial statement.)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNczOD2jE_UaOONhEF7yVftHfrjJb1x2WUkh58MVdBUrgru-riEQcXcgG5hyE7FgERmYY6dTU-pEJatLa5e9ZyoobFnA-mXStb8Yb-NYc5TJATC7_A38_jLOGdArg6JIWGUKKq8P5PgCs/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNczOD2jE_UaOONhEF7yVftHfrjJb1x2WUkh58MVdBUrgru-riEQcXcgG5hyE7FgERmYY6dTU-pEJatLa5e9ZyoobFnA-mXStb8Yb-NYc5TJATC7_A38_jLOGdArg6JIWGUKKq8P5PgCs/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Def Leppard acquired from Pinterest.</td></tr>
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<div>
It's like when Madonna ran around in leggings under her underwear and Def Leppard wore messed up jeans. Underwear is something I still believe should be hidden which would explain the lyrics "<i>like</i> a virgin..." and I didn't get into the ripped jeans until mine wore out and they became fashionable... a little late. Always a step or two behind, sometimes never catching up.</div>
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<div>
I got into leggings but I didn't buy them until everyone moved on to high-waisted jeans and all the leggings went on sale and then I couldn't get enough. I had leggings in all kinds of colors and matchy-matchy tops to go with them... not realizing that I wasn't old enough to wear matchy-matchy. I figure in 20 years I can go matchy with any color of my choice. Diane Keaton did it with black and I am going to do it with pink or maybe lavender. I haven't decided. I might mix them up. That will be a perk I am going to embrace.</div>
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<div>
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<div>
There is only one time I remember getting the jump on the trend. I had the cool specs first and that was right before Sarah Palin hit the scene with interesting glasses. My glasses. Finally, for once I had them first but all I heard was "oh, you got Sarah Palin glasses." NO. Sarah Palin got Darcy Cline glasses... and I can see Mt. Rainier from my house. Really. If you press your face up against the front living room window you can see a snowy slope through the trees.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My first pair of bifocals, the Darcy Cline glasses, required some practice to get used to the dual planes. Right after I got my new prescription, I fell down the last three stairs landing on the concrete on my knees. That hurt. I didn't see them because I was looking through the reading lens. I became a little paranoid after several incidences where I almost fell while looking through the wrong lens of my bifocals. (So if you see me clutching the stair rail, its due to fear of smashing my knees... or breaking my neck.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I like to think of myself as a person who doesn't jump right into the latest fad. My boss made an assessment of my situation. "You're not a Hipster," she said. "You're like a reverse Hipster." Yes I am a Retspih. (The 'h' is silent) </div>
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<div>
Aside from the Darcy Cline Glasses incident, I generally stay behind the curve and most trends that I end up with have cycled through everyone I know.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1b4KkGbK_jkHVFU6pYqC6kq7EDJShEZLBn2wzz7xXkxz4uzQurKXKSO17iFFP7OkmHIj_SLNJ0-VnJ4ZceLZRK4JltfIt0SaprL4EFf5Dxe6Nzm43crV0AHDcvMI1vDq4AHr8k7460SE/s1600/tumblr_mk9tqly3Yv1qk9xnho1_1280.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1b4KkGbK_jkHVFU6pYqC6kq7EDJShEZLBn2wzz7xXkxz4uzQurKXKSO17iFFP7OkmHIj_SLNJ0-VnJ4ZceLZRK4JltfIt0SaprL4EFf5Dxe6Nzm43crV0AHDcvMI1vDq4AHr8k7460SE/s200/tumblr_mk9tqly3Yv1qk9xnho1_1280.png" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara Streisand & Robert <br />
Redford in The Way We Were.<br />
Rastar/Columbia Pictures</td></tr>
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<div>
NO wait. In 8th grade, I liked Robert Redford in The Way We Were. All my friends thought he was ancient. (Now, that gets funnier as I get older.) He has gone on to be an advocate for environmentalism, Native American rights and the arts.<br />
<br />
I also fell in love with Barbara Streisand. None of my friends caught that trend because they were all into The Jackson 5, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Bachman Turner Overdrive, and Elton John. I listened to those musicians as well and some have remained my all-time favorites, but Barbara Streisand has a voice that wouldn't quit and I loved it that she kept her unique look and sound when the pressure to change must have been pretty great. Yep, I am still a fan.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FORw2EFAsj6rA0ntBf6L1QqV7k4DsRb-ZuvEf7v7pqaO7AP7P0iru2D4S2heppOZqqnU2lfrxuUXMlP_G4OUGwhjk4ANBil5QcZWK0hta-_Ystv2N2xjF-c99WSgTuzI0OCDCrGwndU/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FORw2EFAsj6rA0ntBf6L1QqV7k4DsRb-ZuvEf7v7pqaO7AP7P0iru2D4S2heppOZqqnU2lfrxuUXMlP_G4OUGwhjk4ANBil5QcZWK0hta-_Ystv2N2xjF-c99WSgTuzI0OCDCrGwndU/s200/glasses.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new glasses lead a line of old<br />
specs slated for the Lions Club<br />
Donation box.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Back to the seed that grew this <i>Out with the Old post</i>; the important feature of my new glasses is that when I wear them, I can see very well. I don't have to ask my classmates to tell me what the words are on the projector screen during lectures. I can read them for myself. I don't have to find that perfect two-inch depth margin where I can read clearly... thanks to my new bifocals, and most notable is I will not mistake caution signs for busses. (That one was for my kids.)</div>
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<div>
I love my new glasses in the same way I loved my 1990's glasses and I relish the end of this latest fad when I will be able to walk through a crowd and not recognize my style on anyone else. That's when I will be an original again.</div>
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Think of me as the "Jumping the Shark" of trends gal. When I get around to it, its already gone. So Hipsters, what next?</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-82511340619845349722013-04-23T23:21:00.000-07:002013-04-24T00:06:01.972-07:00Nothing New?During my time at Pierce College, I have had many opportunities to learn new things, radical ideas, interesting concepts. I say to myself "well, yes... college is like that." But I have been to college before and this learning thing is nothing new.<br />
<br />
After 52 years of living I have a pretty good grip on who I am and where I fall in the societal scheme of my world. I am a product of a teen marriage. My divorced parents are decendents of mixed European races: Danish, German, Irish with a bit of Native American thrown in. I have two siblings; We grew up low to middle income. Pretty ordinary for an average American.<br />
<br />
When a learning opportunity presented itself, I jumped on it. I'm not going to lie, the idea of spending two nights in a hotel and having all meals prepared... throw in a little live entertainment... of course I am ready to learn something new.<br />
<br />
Along comes the Students of Color Conference(SoCC) in Yakima. Yes. I applied and was accepted and I was ready to have a fun-filled weekend. I expected the performances and I knew I was in for some interesting workshops about race, equality and diversity.<br />
<br />
First on the agenda: White Race Identity Caucus. "Who am I?" as Jean Valjean sings "24601."<br />
<br />
I had no idea.<br />
<br />
I felt like we were going to be asked to stand up and say "Hello. My name is Darcy and I am a white racist."<br />
<br />
I had no idea that because of the color of my skin, I am a racist.<br />
<br />
I wanted to argue, "but I'm not a racist!" I am not.<br />
<br />
But I am white.<br />
<br />
And with my white skin, comes privilege that no other groups can claim. Yay me. I win.<br />
<br />
Why didn't this feel like a win? I don't want privilege simply because I was born of white European decendants. Thats not fair. And it for sure doesn't say anything about my talents or brainpower... or anyone else's. I want fair. (I can talk about fair later.)<br />
<br />
There was a moment of silence in that room where we all tried to absorb this concept. I did not like it at all. This concept argued in my head. "I try to be the same to everyone... but my skin color makes it different." It doesn't matter how much I want it to be otherwise, it colors every interaction I have with people every day.<br />
<br />
Now that is a learning moment, isn't it? My skin color makes me different. After 52 years I have just now felt for a moment what it was like to be judged by the color of my skin. (A moment can't really give me a true understanding of what it is like to be on guard all the time, but it helps put a little, tiny check mark in my experience tab.)<br />
<br />
This concept was presented to me on our first night when we were all asked to select an identity group. I selected white because that is what I am... although I have liked that I have Native American heritage and have read about different tribes and watched documentaries, I know this does not make me a Native American nor an expert. And also I didn't claim this identity because I have not taken the time to research my father's grandmother's lineage. So, white I shall be.<br />
<br />
The important lessons for me were to really look at the advantages I am given and haven't even thought about the fact that I have them. I have power and privilege and because of that, I have a voice that is not silenced by oppression. I can walk into my child's school and demand things that will be given because it came from me. I can get upset and angry in public and it will be a sign of my passion for what I believe. A woman of color must not show passion or it is interpreted as a "race thing" and she runs the risk of losing the attention of the policy-makers, the administration, the people in power. She has to be so much better at public relations than I.<br />
<br />
A person of color runs the risk of losing ground every day. Every new day brings the same battle, the same hidden traps and the same pitfalls.<br />
<br />
Here is where fair comes in: I learned the difference between equality and equity. Equality is when everyone gets the same thing, but equity is when everyone gets what they need. We all have different needs so equality isn't really equitable... it's a new and interesting concept for me, and I like it. I was reminded to look at the meaning of oppressive terms and think about who is the minority and what does that mean? I am a minority and yet we still call the greater population of people of color "the minority."<br />
<br />
The list goes on. The topics I listed were a small drop in the larger pond of issues I had skipped merrily by in my ignorance until the White Race Identity Group Caucus "kicked me in the teeth," as one of my fellow White Caucus attendees stated so eloquently.<br />
<br />
I remember the feeling of terrible loneliness as I left that room and stepped out into the hallway. As I made my escape, I ran into an incredibly nice young man from our group. I said "how was your identity meeting?"<br />
<br />
He was so happy and excited, he was practically vibrating with joy. "I love it! I am so excited about my culture and my people! This is the best conference ever!"<br />
<br />
I was genuinely happy for him. That is how it should be for him. I was also sad for the white students who were in my group. There was no joyful celebration of identity for the minority.<br />
<br />
Our somber group dispersed into the hallway packed with people laughing and cheering. I couldn't even begin to identify with the explosion of excitement and anticipation. I wasn't excited. I was bummed, actually. I wanted to be somewhere safe so I turned away from the crowds and made a dash for the doors where the Yakima wind was blowing fresh and clean.<br />
<br />
I went straight to my hotel room and when I got there, I felt even lonelier than I did at the Students of Color Conference. I sat down and cried.<br />
<br />
Then that got old very quickly so I quit being a baby, made some coffee and went to the next session and learned more.<br />
<br />
And then the next... and the next... and the next and learned.<br />
<br />
What I learned at SoCC was really quite profound. I need a few more years of constant study to understand the whole concept of power and privilege and oppression. And even then I may not know everything I need to know.<br />
<br />
Every speaker, dancer, storyteller, and presenter was motivational and profound.<br />
<br />
I can't really explain how moving the experience was. I have more to learn, certainly. Given an opportunity to go to the conference again, I would take it, for sure. I want to make sure I convey the idea that this is a journey begun. I am not the flag-waving proclaimer running through the streets. I am not out there in that way.<br />
<br />
What I hope to do in my life is interrupt oppression in the way that I can do it and to do it... every day. I know there are little injustices that happen minute by minute and my goal is to not tolerate it. The kicker here is that I may not recognize oppression. I know its tricky but I am going to try... do not listen to Yoda. There is TRY. If we keep trying, we will get it right.<br />
<br />
In one of the sessions I attended on Sisterhood, I was sitting there in a roomful of women when the speaker dropped a bomb.<br />
<br />
"Thank you all for coming. Men, thank you for being here to support women. You are not allowed to speak. You may listen." She took a breath then continued, "White women, thank you for coming. You may not speak, but you may listen."<br />
<br />
I was shocked and hurt. I remember a moment a few years ago when I was helping at an event where a musician performed for a small group. After the music ended, we were all talking and when I spoke, the Privileged White Male singer said "stop talking." It was awkward and embarrassing.<br />
<br />
I have never been in a similar situation like that again... until SoCC. But this time it was different. I was handed an opportunity to learn. To see what being stifled feels like. To know that I could speak... but that I wasn't welcome to speak. For that two-hour period I was not allowed to participate because of the color of my skin.<br />
<br />
That was powerful.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-7278700027477344422013-04-13T22:43:00.001-07:002013-04-14T20:14:04.366-07:00My Mexico<i>I know it has been a bit since I last posted, but finals are over and that brings a close to this difficult quarter. I have one more quarter to go and then I am officially graduated. Whew! Why does it seem harder this time around? A question for another time. I hope you enjoy my latest post. Thanks for reading.</i><br />
<br />
Recently, my boss asked "where were you born and where do you call home?" I was born in Ukiah, California but I believe home is where my family is, so for me, it's true to say home is where the heart is. This answer is always true.<br />
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<br />
There are times I have an additional answer to this question. La Gloria. La Gloria is a small town near Tijuana, Mexico tucked into the dusty yellow hills 20 minutes outside Rosarito, close enough to the pacific ocean to smell the salt and seaweed scented breezes. Cool mornings touched by fog are the relief as the sun climbs high and the temperature soars, scorching in its intensity, . I love it. I have been to La Gloria 16 times over the course of 9 years. For two weeks every summer, La Gloria was home.</div>
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It all began with an uneventful Sunday morning. My oldest daughter, Courtney and I were sitting in the crowd of parishioners. I know I was not really paying attention. I was busy thinking of all that needed doing. The laundry, finishing up school shopping, getting a plan for the coming holidays... I admit, I wasn't using my God-given time wisely.</div>
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Sometimes the homilies speak directly to me and I pay full attention because there is a bit of wisdom tucked away in each of those carefully written talks. At the time, it was Father Gary speaking and at the end of mass, he didn't release us. "Please be seated. Eileen is here to talk about her recent mission experience in Mexico."</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IBb3L0Fz2OVswgmHWCGQ3g4uOT_q606GPVqAJpn0Hm565ObqjDKPlkW2MI80bflAS_riXs8ieTS4HmtK8uD0XzDb923Eii10AUm5rn4kkK_Xax8xF-iNGuE1wjbiWTmzpVgbzFDzeHA/s1600/DSC01643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IBb3L0Fz2OVswgmHWCGQ3g4uOT_q606GPVqAJpn0Hm565ObqjDKPlkW2MI80bflAS_riXs8ieTS4HmtK8uD0XzDb923Eii10AUm5rn4kkK_Xax8xF-iNGuE1wjbiWTmzpVgbzFDzeHA/s1600/DSC01643.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">United States vs. Mexico</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I imagined a collective groan from the room full of Catholics who had done their time, ready to move on. Courtney and I sat and listened.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Eileen talked about serving our young people by being involved in the Esperanza program at Holy Disciples. She talked about experiencing the challenge of helping people build a better life. She talked about the grassroots program that empowers people to work towards the common goal of a close-knit thriving community. Low interest loans, payback programs, community involvement... and she talked about Mexico. It was interesting.<br />
<br />
I was in my early forties and I began thinking about how I had always wanted to travel, join the Peace Corps and make a difference in the world. I didn't grow up in a household that worried about what was happening outside of our own country or even beyond our neighborhood, so I was easily discouraged from this yearning. I went down a different path instead. That all turned out good but I couldn't quiet the travel bug.<br />
<br />
So when Eileen talked, I listened and thought "I could do this. I could finally go somewhere." Yes, travel was the bait.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimm_qAQ4fexgMI7luV3_mgc6bxZCq9pKZo5enRH8hBAUm5ggz4T-597wvqvT5Vf6RHKi5bjWbxqwYpFl3J4ZS1pbWD8x-m4M3Cj9OcW70Ey43FqzhY4WiQFCVSuPWzrh11L1hZkAgnAM/s1600/IMG_4346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimm_qAQ4fexgMI7luV3_mgc6bxZCq9pKZo5enRH8hBAUm5ggz4T-597wvqvT5Vf6RHKi5bjWbxqwYpFl3J4ZS1pbWD8x-m4M3Cj9OcW70Ey43FqzhY4WiQFCVSuPWzrh11L1hZkAgnAM/s1600/IMG_4346.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Neighborhood built on a dump site. This picture was<br />
taken from the clinic that was built to help the community<br />
resolve their many illnesses due to toxins from the refuse.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I looked at Courtney and she looked at me and we said "lets do that." So we did.<br />
<br />
It turned out to be more than an opportunity to travel. It became a calling.<br />
<br />
My first trip in 2002, in which I was a chaperone was so profound, it was beyond explanation. The entire experience was rich in culture and struggle. I couldn't get enough of the scenery and the people. I found a sad beauty in the blue tarp communities and took hundreds of photos. I loved the families we met and learned to communicate with very little Spanish... and there was the hard work, the extreme heat and limited conveniences. It was all very interesting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95iXp-xoAAiTObmkKDlIkzjDRnCiMdZkGbb4bBV9NlZ22c-aQ6I0G3q8t16Udpy_45vE8X7paeKRO8smo0utuoUp32Satxpf1ZJYFQBlaeuK3YdTNJsS3MXG8kIE5X7pH9zlzA9ftAaY/s1600/DSC02734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95iXp-xoAAiTObmkKDlIkzjDRnCiMdZkGbb4bBV9NlZ22c-aQ6I0G3q8t16Udpy_45vE8X7paeKRO8smo0utuoUp32Satxpf1ZJYFQBlaeuK3YdTNJsS3MXG8kIE5X7pH9zlzA9ftAaY/s1600/DSC02734.JPG" width="150" /></a>It felt so good for me to do this... I was part of something important and our first family was wary of us, having had a previous group that didn't talk to their children, complained about the food the family served and made the construction crew wait in the car while they ate lunch at a McDonalds.<br />
<br />
We won them over, though. Before long the kids were singing songs with our group and we were exchanging recipes in the kitchen... and fixing up their house... it was just like home.<br />
<br />
I think the Esperanza International program is a smart, grassroots program to<br />
teach communities how to care about their surroundings. The families accepted into the program must hold jobs to pay back very low interest loans on a cinder block space that can be added onto in later years. Unlike the wood structures, cinder block homes do not catch on fire or get washed down the hillsides. The 2-3 foot foundations keep them firmly in place. They are also very good in the heat, providing much needed shade in 100+ temperatures.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.esperanzaint.org/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GbsRnzPTafhvRS9lLa270pa2tDwaGxB-cKcyUGyE7XbIu72x9OzcmH78PML-L0glsob5oX1uKQJw0ntBOBeHTOspHSolSNjvjUjUq-MvmkPsc3GvCuxKdF39N3xMaqULO1JIu9C2xXw/s1600/logo.jpeg" width="190" /></a>The program is built on the theory that friends within a community will work together to make it a better place and want to stay. Each family can be on the waiting list for a home for two years. During those two years, they help and support other families while their homes are being built. When it is their turn, the people they have helped, then help them. It is a "pay it forward" philosophy. <a href="http://www.esperanzaint.org/">http://www.esperanzaint.org/</a><br />
<br />
The work was long and hard and tiring but what I enjoyed most was learning about their lives. This always happened with the moms in the kitchen, usually a room made of parts found in the junkyard: a garage door, old lumber, barrels, and roofing materials housing a cook-top electric stove powered by wires crawling across the lot to be joined with other wires in the street that ran down the side of the road to the nearest working utility pole.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77XvpMJVADswyxhqm3meCL6qtyvQE2-IvM6f8A8_WisJFG5daQtIaXpeo4Neq_bUwCbxBU6OFYKC5bzuNDSi90UMXrgWHL2TEQv_Vr-b5cDLYCu5KSxj8ErIKkBdanS7-CwFNr5swFJk/s1600/mex_2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77XvpMJVADswyxhqm3meCL6qtyvQE2-IvM6f8A8_WisJFG5daQtIaXpeo4Neq_bUwCbxBU6OFYKC5bzuNDSi90UMXrgWHL2TEQv_Vr-b5cDLYCu5KSxj8ErIKkBdanS7-CwFNr5swFJk/s1600/mex_2007.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The progression of the foundation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
When water ran down the street, I could see the sparks snapping as children ran around and jumped the wires as they played. I remember one volunteer could not get past the U.S. code violations: "They would never do this in the U.S."<br />
<br />
He didn't love the experience, which I think is fine. Some people like to get down into the trenches and work till they drop when natural disasters devastate a town, community or region. Some like to go on managed missions to make a difference. Other people like to send money. All of this is good.<br />
<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGREKcK9l4CvH3_yIy-Cs0WPU8e-QzoY7fMrvi5koMdZInr6NAXc73PAcasIjcXtpHPI2F-d3dVnKLVzhVz9T7rspiRy_Cf_jzYDLQvkmpd1tEJFlZl_xmLpPxYFIf4HKLKsNxKP9TjZE/s1600/IMG_4386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGREKcK9l4CvH3_yIy-Cs0WPU8e-QzoY7fMrvi5koMdZInr6NAXc73PAcasIjcXtpHPI2F-d3dVnKLVzhVz9T7rspiRy_Cf_jzYDLQvkmpd1tEJFlZl_xmLpPxYFIf4HKLKsNxKP9TjZE/s1600/IMG_4386.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ladies of the community preparing food for the workers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of my favorite memories of the kitchen talks, was when I sat and listened to a mom talk about her challenges to use holistic methods of dealing with her family's health. It was like being hit over the head. The daily life in the ever expanding edges of Tijuana is so difficult that I never considered there would be time to study alternative lifestyle choices and yet this mom was totally motivated and excited about this. She expanded my narrow thinking.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB3RLrZFGILAf268UsCKUb9yyoNcm2s7Crzw1562ockK9W_o_OByTbdpt_i0qbe3tc2mJOSfrXoMEKvpK8njhUiq6TO2EbgcBCi1zoFB31CY5bfDT_XEKgkp_3KUAjSGT_1RIfuAnw6E/s1600/DSC03289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB3RLrZFGILAf268UsCKUb9yyoNcm2s7Crzw1562ockK9W_o_OByTbdpt_i0qbe3tc2mJOSfrXoMEKvpK8njhUiq6TO2EbgcBCi1zoFB31CY5bfDT_XEKgkp_3KUAjSGT_1RIfuAnw6E/s1600/DSC03289.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunchbreak.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My family and I have spent many summers traveling to Mexico through the Esperanza International mission program. this was something we looked forward to every year. I couldn't wait to go back... year after year. I loved every minute of the experience. I loved working with the youth of our church as each person changed and grew in one way or another. I loved meeting the families and hearing their stories... watching the children get to know each of us... helping in the kitchen... building.<br />
<br />
I miss it.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-59919744016905352562012-12-12T00:12:00.004-08:002012-12-12T16:15:21.781-08:00Loving LifeSo here we are at the end of time.... again. I am writing this blog post in anticipation of the end of the world: December 21, 2012.<br />
<br />
In my lifetime I have survived three official "End of Time" events and I am sure, many unofficial calls that I obviously didn't pay much attention to until last year when a man (Harold Camping?) predicted the end May 22, 2011, but the end failed to appear. This was his second such prediction. I feel sad that he isn't very good at predicting and hope he secures other work, and yet find myself quite happy he was wrong.<br />
<br />
This predicting of the end of the world must be a lot like the housing market; just when you think it can't go any lower... boom, there it is. Another end of the world.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned earlier, I have survived three doomsdays, hopefully four after the 21st, and feel the need to talk about these false starts or more accurately, false stops stopping.<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">
March 10, 1982 - The Jupiter Effect</span></h4>
<br />
I must admit, at the time this prediction came to light, I was busy being a newlywed and a college student and I remember being horribly uninformed while I attended college. Once on a visit home, we heard Gerard's younger brother talking about a war going on and we both said "what war?" We had no idea Argentina and England were warring over the Falkland Islands for 74 days. After that embarrassing incident, I became addicted to CNN Headline News.<br />
<br />
On March 10th, my husband and I celebrated our 5 month anniversary (we didn't really celebrate our monthly anniversaries because we were busy getting an education ;). Anyway... The Jupiter Effect is the rare instance when all the planets end up on the same side of the sun. This event would then cause catastrophic natural disasters which would put an end to all the goings on here on earth.<br />
<br />
The Falklands Conflict began on Friday, April 2, 1982. I don't know for sure but maybe someone was feeling a little pissy about selling his Grateful Dead collectibles so he could go on a drinking binge to drown out the end and woke up April 1st feeling like a fool. This might get him to thinking, "I'm going to get the Falklands back!" Like the end of the world, wars don't always make sense.<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">
January 1, 2000 - Y2k</span></h4>
<br />
Yes, I ask myself this question often. Why K2? And then I remember that was the name for the ski company on Vashon Island and I go to wondering how many people commute on the ferry from the Seattle area to Vashon... and are they still in business... and are there skiing opportunities on K2... Hi. My name is Darcy Cline and I am a research addict. I LOVE RESEARCH!<br />
<br />
Okay, settle, settle. Y2k was a dumb theory that when all the clocks turned over to 2000, it would all go wrong because the sad guy setting up computer time blah blah blah was working under a little black cloud and didn't see a future, so he set all the timers to end at 1999. (I didn't research this, but I think it went just like I said.)<br />
<br />
So everyone, (scientists and everybody with math like calculus and triggermonetary believed this?) expected that stuff would blow up and the world would end like one giant New Years Eve celebration gone awry, where Dick Clark's famous ball falls off and rolls around Times Square killing all people everywhere. I should write horror.<br />
<br />
Nothing happened. Moving on... (85% of the 200 employees commuted from Seattle area, K2 moved manufacturing from Vashon Island to China in 2001, closest ski resort is 175 miles away from K2)<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">
June 6, 2006 - The Antichrist Returns</span></h4>
<br />
Now the return of the Antichrist is something to fear. I know this. Two months ago I renewed my AAA membership and the representative issued me a number that had 666 in the middle of it and I thought that was just asking for roadside disasters. I asked if we could renew with our old membership number and she assured me I had to make due with the new evil number. (AAA, 666 - this is just asking for bad juju.)<br />
<br />
A week later the cards show up and I refused to hand them to my kids and say "happy driving... oh, and beware the Antichrist!" I put them all back in the envelope and let them sit on the counter while I stewed about the evil number. A day or so later, a representative from AAA called and asked how our service was upon renewal. She was an angel, I tell you. I explained my misgivings over the stupid number on the card and she was the all-helpful, smile-voiced angel of mercy who eliminated the evil number and reinstated our old membership with a flap of her snowy white wings. Good wins out over evil.<br />
<br />
Having just said that, I can't remember this date coming or going. That could be due to the fact that during that time I was anemic and can't remember many things because my blood wasn't strong enough to send oxygen to my brain. George W. Bush was president then... it's best we put this behind us.<br />
<br />
Well, here I am at the almost end. We have one more end of time prediction to contemplate. (Yes, I couldn't resist publishing this on 12/12/12 at 12:12 am. I am still here for those who thought it would happen now.)<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">
December 21, 2012 - End of the Mayan Calendar</span></h4>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXOw9coUI8cl78784GKteW3tus9_1vJ24rQnk6Hsmh7iYrxVd_e9o7CEWkVKz6TGkHDyn6o3MD76HjgX_sxBEBLcGTI8Psp2-M-ZQU6JQfb0FjchV1nX_fHGQgV4pPYsGNmlwPVrLUSg/s1600/Mayan-calendar-2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXOw9coUI8cl78784GKteW3tus9_1vJ24rQnk6Hsmh7iYrxVd_e9o7CEWkVKz6TGkHDyn6o3MD76HjgX_sxBEBLcGTI8Psp2-M-ZQU6JQfb0FjchV1nX_fHGQgV4pPYsGNmlwPVrLUSg/s320/Mayan-calendar-2012.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Beautiful Mayan Calendar - I might have ended time way <br />
sooner than the Mayans if I had to draw up one of these.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have less faith in this prediction simply because an ancient culture failed to buy a new calendar for the next 5000 years. Yes, I do believe it was lack of foresight on their part but we have to consider they might not have known what they were doing, hence their mysterious cultural and environmental collapse around AD 900-ish.<br />
<br />
Granted, we haven't lived through this new and current end, but I have faith and hope that we will be running around from December 22nd to the 24th, cursing the doomsayers, buying all those gifts we didn't buy when Christmas was getting hijacked by the hourglass, and overjoyed at finally having a valid reason for postponing the shopping.<br />
<br />
I am happy to report, we have all our Christmas shopping done for the first time in... probably ever and we paid cash for everything. GO US! I still have gifts to make and that cannot be postponed. The future is coming and I am looking forward to celebrating the holidays with my family as I wish hope and joy to all of you to experience each day as the world continues to spin.<br />
<br />
Peace.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3kv1fjT8Qq8Q4UECASI_MAd6OG8Ra9584Odqr5PNT7lHZjG_mv_2l3Prnp7pBgio_Ntaga_-ouWSykTSdU0Xi4NTqC3Di1v-SiIudpyk1fYpIREaqnW6q06Wef9NKnKwcQvdQvwj6KY/s1600/wCalfront.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3kv1fjT8Qq8Q4UECASI_MAd6OG8Ra9584Odqr5PNT7lHZjG_mv_2l3Prnp7pBgio_Ntaga_-ouWSykTSdU0Xi4NTqC3Di1v-SiIudpyk1fYpIREaqnW6q06Wef9NKnKwcQvdQvwj6KY/s320/wCalfront.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Calendar Design for Winter Quarter - Simple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>P.S.</b> 3797 is suspected as being another end of time date and I really don't have much interest in this date since I plan on living less than 150 years... that gives me about 98 years which would put me in La La Land or 2110, which is probably a number freak's next special date.<br />
<br />
Nostradamus has predicted many things and is known as a prophet and philosopher. His prophecies stop abruptly at 3797. Well now that could mean many things... (If I stop chewing gum... does that signify I stopped abruptly or with great meaning?) I suspect it was a bit like the Mayan calendar... maybe he retired to write romance novels and knit scarves... just saying.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you are interested in more research, here is an interesting website that has listed the most number of End Predictions I have seen. Get past the bad graphics and see a load of information that is very interesting, indeed: http://www.bible.ca/pre-date-setters.htm.<br />
<br />
Please take a moment to read Joanne's story in my previous post, A Kinder Kidney.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Century Gothic', Verdana, Tahoma; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">
</h2>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-27519243979109300382012-12-01T15:45:00.002-08:002012-12-11T21:27:12.451-08:00A Kinder Kidney<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">I wonder what it would be like to wait for someone to die, so I
could live. </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">And</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> to possess the knowledge that someone else waiting </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">on the list</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">, was also
wishing, holding their breath... and in a better place in line. I could see
this battle waging in my head in which I let slip a little thought or prayer to
God or the Universe that the person ahead of me not make a good match. The idea
that wishing for someone's misfortune, even for a split second, when I finally
pay off a college loan, or after reaching a goal, or maybe while I am playing with
a future grandchild and I send off a great need and yearning to be spared so I
would have a chance to see this child grow, would cause a mountain of guilt in
me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">My mom's best friend, Joanne, lives with this uncertainty every
day. She has been on a kidney transplant waiting list for 3 years. She tells me
"the wait can take up to six years... if you are lucky enough to survive
until then." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Joanne's friends and family </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">are working hard to
bring</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> awareness about becoming a <b>live donor</b></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">, because the
transplant list is long and odds of surviving a transplant are higher with a
live donor kidney, as opposed to waiting for a deceased donor organ.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think most people might associate the
phrase 'organ donation' with organs from someone who has just passed away</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">. I know I
did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">I have been an organ donor since I realized I could make that
choice in the event of my untimely death. I have the little heart on my
driver's license. I like having it there, but it wasn't the department of
licensing that made me aware of that option. It was my friend and coworker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Ruth was the first person I had ever met </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">who </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">was on the
kidney donor registry, </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">as a live donor</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">. She had no family members that needed a kidney. A
friend hadn't convinced her to do it. She just did it because she wanted to
help someone live. I think this the best gift... the unconditional gift of
life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">And because I love statistics and research, I did a <i>little</i></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> digging:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">According
to the National Kidney Foundation (NKF) </span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b>as of
August 31, 2012:</b></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">There are currently <b>115,193</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> people waiting for lifesaving
organ transplants in the U.S.
Of these, <b>93,148</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> await kidney transplants.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Last year, <b>16,812</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> kidney transplants took place in the U.S. Of
these, <b>11,043</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> kidney
transplants came from deceased donors and <b>5,769</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"> came from living donors.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYhOqNJ3fKc3DKG3MylKOPMjkMdNGX19Q7cXXUxA5s0-qyAjG6jvlgY9mTQLhfS9EXcs-w6zvgUhs3b4_mJsOPrRr2JfH1Aq253zrBYydDaDJoSfewp5lXqao_qkrE7CKZyioauXPw8g/s1600/40063_10150249131135451_416583_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYhOqNJ3fKc3DKG3MylKOPMjkMdNGX19Q7cXXUxA5s0-qyAjG6jvlgY9mTQLhfS9EXcs-w6zvgUhs3b4_mJsOPrRr2JfH1Aq253zrBYydDaDJoSfewp5lXqao_qkrE7CKZyioauXPw8g/s320/40063_10150249131135451_416583_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joanne Prokop 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman; line-height: normal;">My mom's friend Joanne Prokop has Polycystic Kidney Disease
(PKD). She was diagnosed with PKD at the age of 30, after the birth of her
third child. She was having trouble controlling her blood pressure so her
doctor ordered an ultrasound, which confirmed the diagnosis.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At that time, her doctor advised living a healthy life. Joanne
complied, taking medication and following the doctor's advice, managing her
illness, but she has been unable to stop the progression of the disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Despite her commitment to healthy living, Joanne has
progressed into stage 4 kidney disease. Her kidneys are no longer
functioning properly and are estimated to weigh about 20 pounds each.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">"A
normal kidney is the size of a human fist and weighs about a third of a pound.
However, with the presence of PKD, cysts develop in both kidneys. When many
cysts develop, the kidneys can increase in both size and weight, sometimes
weighing many pounds each. There may be just a few cysts or many, and the
cysts may range in size from a pinhead to the size of a grapefruit." - PKD
Foundation.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">At 54 years of age, her disease is catching up with her, which
is why she is eager to get the information out to as many people as possible,
because as more donors step forward, more lives will be saved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">I am sure there are hundreds of thousands of family and friends
of the people on the transplant waiting list that feel the same way I do. They
want their loved ones to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Joanne is a wonderful person and I know I don't want to think of
what life would be like without her, but we can't help worry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">In writing this post, I don't expect everyone to jump up and
come to the rescue... although that would be nice. I feel compelled to do
something. I can't donate my kidney because of health issues, but I can write a
blog and put a thought out there and bring</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> more awareness to live organ donation.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">While talking to my best friend about this, she informed me that
</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">she
and her daughter were talking about my upcoming blog topic</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> and now her
daughter</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> is</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> very interested in the idea of being a kidney donor. I love it
that she is thinking about it! My blog caused two people to talk about it and
then maybe one of them talked to their husband and maybe he talked to someone
else about what his wife was considering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">I believe it doesn't matter how we help, what matters is that we
help... in any way that makes sense to each of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">So if you are thinking about this and about people like Joanne,
I am happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">And because I love research, here are more statistics, as
daunting as they are to read, I think it is important to be informed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">According
to the NFK, on average:</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Nearly <b>3,000</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> new patients are added to the kidney waiting list each
month.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><b>13</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> people
die each day while waiting for a life-saving transplant<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">Every 10 minutes someone is added to the transplant list<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Last year, <b>4,903</b></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> patients died while waiting for a kidney
transplant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e69138;">Acceptable organ donors can range in age from newborn to 65
years or more.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">I know this doesn't have a great deal to do with art, but it has
everything to do with life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">For information about kidney disease, visit these informative
organizations:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
The program Joanne is enrolled in:<br />
<a href="http://www.virginiamason.org/">Virginia Mason Hospital & Medical Center, Seattle | Seattle's Top Doctors are at Virginia Mason</a><br />
<a href="http://www.virginiamason.org/">www.virginiamason.org</a><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br /></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><a href="http://www.pkd.org/">http://www.pkd.org</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><a href="http://www.kidney.org/">http://www.kidney.org</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">For information about becoming a donor:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><a href="http://www.kidney.org/transplantation/livingdonors/aboutdonation.cfm">http://www.kidney.org/transplantation/livingdonors/aboutdonation.cfm</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">These are just a few of links available to find information.
Google "kidney disease" to find a wealth of information about PKD and
"becoming an organ donor" to access organ donor programs.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-29984893114580228692012-10-14T03:58:00.002-07:002012-11-01T07:09:48.743-07:00Jumping Jimmy Johns! Is it Juxtapositional Justification or Just Junk?I have a thing about lining objects up. I feel an intense compulsion to place objects on my desk, paper, the kitchen counter, the wall... so they create an imaginary line that leads smoothly towards items nearby. Having intersecting lines from several directions is perfectly allowable in this mental game I play, as long as the objects are perpendicular to each other.<br />
<br />
But it isn't so easily discerned. Sometimes these items can be skewed, however, this skew must have a reason or logical placement. Remember, all lines from point a to point b must serve a purpose. I am required to have a reason for this skew. This skewed, anti-perpendicular object must also connect on an imaginary line to some other anchor in the setting.<br />
<br />
I suppose this compulsion is my own West Coast, home-grown, version of Feng Shui. Now Feng Shui is a beautiful and complicated system of using the Tao of Heaven and Earth to improve life. I am simplifying this terribly so I will call my own version "Fan Shoe."<br />
<br />
Fan because I do love film and television and I am a fan, but can behave myself in the presence of celebrities. (I did see Elvis in concert at the Coliseum in 1976 and not once did I scream out "I LOVE YOU! Also that same year, Danny Kaye touched my face and I didn't dissolve into an incoherent puddle. More recent testimony had me wiping Eddie Vetter's... saliva? off with a napkin as he was spitting on everyone during a performance at the ShowBox in Seattle. I am happy to report the napkin ended up in the trash, not on Ebay.)<br />
<br />
And Shoe, well, because I actually want to love shoes, however, I don't have a wardrobe that would complement a great pair of shoes, so you see, old clothes/new shoes is not Fan Shoe in my world. Old clothes/old shoes is a straight, uncluttered line from point a to point b. Capice?<br />
<br />
After Gerard and I got married, we moved to Ellensburg, Washington to go to school at Central. We rented a little house on a cattle ranch and had the full use of a tethered goat to mow the lawn. That was interesting and a story for another day. What interests me here and now about that little farmhouse, was the shed out back. It was shifted just a few feet away from being perfectly parallel to the house.<br />
<br />
It drove me crazy. I couldn't go behind the house because my eye would be drawn to it in an effort to understand why they didn't move the front end a few feet to the left. Gerard knew how much this bothered me and he actually considered jacking the shed up and moving it the few feet. It was a sweet thought... thank goodness we moved before it came to that end.<br />
<br />
Our garage shares a similar relationship to our house. It isn't quite as bad as the poor unfortunate shed because the line of the driveway makes a sensible bend as it curves its way towards the garage doors. It has a justifiable curve, if you will.<br />
<br />
Wires and cables fit into my Fan Shoe theory as well. I must have my wires hidden or lined up along the floor so tidily that they are optically illusive. I prefer not to see them at all.<br />
<br />
I have a compulsion to keep wires in my space coiled. My mouse is a particularly troublesome example because I need enough give in the wire to facilitate the manipulation of the mouse, while still maintaining a visually peaceful Fan Shoe appearance. I accomplish this by coiling the bulk of the wire, tying the coil in two places and leaving a ten inch span loose which I work with as I utilize the mouse. This wire business is extremely frustrating for me and, it seems I lose this battle in an effort to stay connected, I have wires running all over my office and they cross my line of vision every moment. Definitely not ideal Fan Shoe for me.<br />
<br />
These related lines also appear in my art. I am compelled to justify my juxtapositional arrangements. I find the order of repetition visually relaxing. I think it calms my soul. When I have troubled thoughts, I will draw vertical lines on my paper and it feels as if a pressure has been eased between my shoulder blades.<br />
<br />
This Fan Shoe theory was in effect in my Blue Room Triptych from my post, "Everything Easy." I had many intersecting lines and they all have a direction, reason, or destination to validate their existence. I may not always remember why I placed them, but I am secure in the knowledge that at that time, those lines had purpose.<br />
<br />
My current assignment for advanced drawing is an interpretation of this poem:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b>Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside</b></h3>
Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great<br />
hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations<br />
has been a trough, renewing in itself<br />
an inch or two of rain, I satisfy<br />
my thirst: taking the water's pristine coolness<br />
into my whole body through my wrists.<br />
Drinking would be too powerful, too clear;<br />
but this unhurried gesture of restraint<br />
fills my whole consciousness with shining water.<br />
<br />
Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied<br />
to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment,<br />
lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.<br />
<h4>
<i>Rainer Maria Rilke</i></h4>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPVeA-Fc6cvFXJ56BU3xjyi83R50Ewyo1fCtpoWh3lugANubEWNgIsXodz39Ti9pLsqeuSlokm036H9nLdfSmK7KdITbGq3dNZPjMuiJZVVR0pnZ3exSELSkhxboBMEmrHWeBp1rzR-M/s1600/DSC_0528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPVeA-Fc6cvFXJ56BU3xjyi83R50Ewyo1fCtpoWh3lugANubEWNgIsXodz39Ti9pLsqeuSlokm036H9nLdfSmK7KdITbGq3dNZPjMuiJZVVR0pnZ3exSELSkhxboBMEmrHWeBp1rzR-M/s400/DSC_0528.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the Roadside - ©2012 Darcy Cline</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I can see the careful construction of lines and intersecting elements although I imagine it might be more difficult for someone who hasn't looked at this work for hours... days... and consequently been bedeviled by it.<br />
<br />
This piece represents my first full-scale graphite drawing in years. I used to draw all the time, but somewhere along the way, I became too careful. I can see that coming out in this drawing. This careful perfectionism is what has kept we away from drawing for so long. It is emotionally draining to be so careful with something I actually love.<br />
<br />
So, where is this going, you ask? Well, our class recently benefited from live models in the classroom and as an added bonus, we were given a 15 minute time limit to complete drawings of the models faces.<br />
<br />
I decided to use charcoal, since I haven't explored charcoal very much... it is so messy and I do like to keep my hands as clean as possible. I have never liked the idea of smudging on purpose, and when charcoal is involved its one big smudge.<br />
<br />
We were given a very helpful demonstration on how to use the medium, washing the drawing surface with a mid-tone to eliminate the white paper, adding in the darker shapes then finishing with reduction (erasers) or using a white conte to bring out the highlight areas.<br />
<br />
It helped quite a bit to just jump right in and also the time limit was good for me. When given more time, I will overwork the spontaneity. I didn't have the luxury to worry about how things were lined up and relativity and Fan Shoe, etc., etc.<br />
<br />
I think I like working with charcoal. It's freeing. I do need more practice, for sure. (My hands did get messy, though.)<br />
<br />
See the results below.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheEjIt_VUW8yLyGRjfwYIa_PMfK03Rt4_FPsHouI7wnrPoKVAzLAVHM_6UkK27JUd0KKo98VFHsnv2RxLNuLDoHoIwQDKkqObwUJbUFqToqhHznIes4Z0IZnD-MUTgxMr08hZ8j7UD7Ns/s1600/IMG_0251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheEjIt_VUW8yLyGRjfwYIa_PMfK03Rt4_FPsHouI7wnrPoKVAzLAVHM_6UkK27JUd0KKo98VFHsnv2RxLNuLDoHoIwQDKkqObwUJbUFqToqhHznIes4Z0IZnD-MUTgxMr08hZ8j7UD7Ns/s320/IMG_0251.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch 1 - Prior to the demonstration on charcoal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s320/IMG_0253.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch 2 - I see my style tightening<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K-gOqvbpZYqEd0eNrhXEIdJJndGHZja1JtOLXYMcgMx4pZ3TnrzZ1aFeuu11aJZxdPrI2EYTowMLq8eFsjuz8ynw8boDD1_V-_1wYIDI3Bd7eTTo77s4gRpJXpMfnVKdM2IfKNN-d1E/s1600/IMG_0250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4K-gOqvbpZYqEd0eNrhXEIdJJndGHZja1JtOLXYMcgMx4pZ3TnrzZ1aFeuu11aJZxdPrI2EYTowMLq8eFsjuz8ynw8boDD1_V-_1wYIDI3Bd7eTTo77s4gRpJXpMfnVKdM2IfKNN-d1E/s320/IMG_0250.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch 3 - After the demo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2T-XOMS9A7Al0gQ_l4DEl-bEf_sLu-KfeZTZ_N0odi9_pYnejkWKqMBd2XTw-MeRY-2c7rCfkRz7V6r0IJEfVe4lCXDKLDkCs9uLKOY7ZeT2AgbWEeqU5FxWCeZTtcYB0Q7nIku3_QY/s1600/IMG_0252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2T-XOMS9A7Al0gQ_l4DEl-bEf_sLu-KfeZTZ_N0odi9_pYnejkWKqMBd2XTw-MeRY-2c7rCfkRz7V6r0IJEfVe4lCXDKLDkCs9uLKOY7ZeT2AgbWEeqU5FxWCeZTtcYB0Q7nIku3_QY/s320/IMG_0252.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch 4 - 30 minutes on this sketch.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1NwiUeElNKoisERt9PLrNP_ADJmRTSQDVHIef9YZhsInO7Btdvngz_CiLL7iErCJbLhXMiQsqSbLc7PZOsH0AicxXaRMpYOpQCbp2wn7Qo7o3IsBQzodOkGGbPtRARfc0YimeRfoabE/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-45369118113699832562012-09-30T02:29:00.002-07:002012-09-30T02:52:26.509-07:00Interesting IllustrationsSometimes, being an illustrator is easy. There are days when drawing is painless and the images rush and flow from the pencil as if the graphite was lured onto the paper by Odysseus's Sirens, to be trapped on the page, which is transformed into a more forgiving place forever and always. The shapes are lovely, the shadows rich and supple. Its a world where ugly is transformed into fine art and becomes a thing of beauty simply because it was rendered with a pencil. Plain becomes interesting and mysterious. The blank white page comes alive with emotion and the artist... yes, me... I cannot believe what I have created.<br />
<br />
I am stunned and filled with fear that this thing I have created sucked my stores dry and there is no more where that came from. I study it, find faults that no one will ever see and worry a little about what I will do with such an amazing creation. I can't keep everything. Like children, they must be set free to find their place in the world. I like the idea that there is artwork out there that I created, but don't know exactly who is currently looking at it and whether or not they have come up with the proper interpretation.<br />
<br />
I take a picture of these great works and stare at them until I nod off and my ipod slips out of my hand and hits me in the nose. This indicates a good day's work.<br />
<br />
On occasions, the illustrations come hard and heavy and the creating is chore. The lines awkward, the strokes offend the image. Nothing flows with peace and abandon. Rending becomes an effort like dragging glass over wet boulders, they slip and break on the rugged surface, shattering, leaving shards that cut and scrape. Every line is carved. It is easy to abandon, but this work must be completed, whether it is for an assignment or commission, the work must be completed. This is when it is difficult to draw.<br />
<br />
I have been known to question myself where my art is concerned. I admit, I am a demon in my own head. I keep looking for my "style" to emerge and feel disappointed that all I see is the same old me... my style.<br />
<br />
I draw, paint, render, print, sew, bake.... etc. I do it as I have always done it. I am careful, controlled, rigid, methodical and... I am hopeful, enthusiastic, enamored, playful, creative and in love. I am all of these things when it goes well, leaving less of the left brain qualities behind while I dive freely into a pool of the more engaging characteristics of my art self. <br />
<br />
Still, all of these qualities and more are present when the art flows as well as when it doesn't. I never leave any of them behind, so when it goes badly, it is really my perception that is skewed. I know that when I am disappointed, its not really half as bad as I think it is. I don't really give myself a break and yet, I can look at any other drawings and find the glory, well rendered or not. I love gazing upon the artwork of children. I can see a love for the process of art in them and that is beautiful thing.<br />
<br />
My first child, Courtney, spent many years feeling as if she missed the creative art gene that the rest of us all have. She felt her work was never good enough. I do know the feeling and maybe she was echoing my doubts about my own abilities. But the main characteristic of her artistic discontent was that she didn't love the process. Art is messy and she wanted it to be perfect. The one thing art is not.<br />
<br />
When Courtney left home to attend college in Bellingham, she began to explore her art self, in the same way I explored design at Central. She launched an expedition through the uncharted territory of her creativity that was quite amazing, creating interesting art using any medium she could obtain... all the while claiming she wasn't an artist.<br />
<br />
When I attended Central Washington University, I discovered a different world in art and its relationship to communication and design. That was my focus. Occasionally, I produced a drawing that wasn't technically perfect, but I loved it anyway and even though I didn't have an ipod to stare at before I fell asleep, I would sit in our tiny kitchen late into the night and look at what I made with my hand and a pencil. I did that with many of my works, but with my Self-Portrait from 1983, I feel wonder every time I look at it. Sometimes it feels amazing.<br />
<br />
It was like that when Courtney came home from college and showed us this urgent need to create a charcoal drawing. She was driven and it was a strange thing to watch someone who felt like a left-brainer attack this artwork like a full-blown, obsessed artist... and she wasn't free until she finished the thing.<br />
<br />
This piece is my favorite of her now vast body of artwork. I loved the lines and the energy and her commitment to finish or to get it right. It was perfect.<br />
<br />
I know a well-drawn work of art gets the glory, but, what makes it interesting is loving the process.<br />
<br />
As I begin a quarter of Advanced Drawing, I am going to give myself a break and try not to be the perfectionist. I am going to learn and lose control and draw freely. No mistakes will be made, because art is joy, the process is love and the result is a gift.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: 'helvetica neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21px;"><i>Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.<span class="author_name" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> — Pablo Picasso</span></i></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqiGDv8WqqNZlHySQhIxhU6P6glyYhg45uTBBddS_HPEsc-a-Nxvpd7rTd3Hdep_LsdrgSHvYug0EY7slYl_n1cjkf7Rlk7M6l96PhMg-1OV7Us3yJ2ybv_LmX7uyq7RTaus8351VC4Rc/s1600/Untitled_CourtneyCline_2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqiGDv8WqqNZlHySQhIxhU6P6glyYhg45uTBBddS_HPEsc-a-Nxvpd7rTd3Hdep_LsdrgSHvYug0EY7slYl_n1cjkf7Rlk7M6l96PhMg-1OV7Us3yJ2ybv_LmX7uyq7RTaus8351VC4Rc/s320/Untitled_CourtneyCline_2010.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smoking, Courtney Cline, 2010 Charcoal </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #555555; font-family: 'helvetica neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="author_name" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></i></span>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KaJMX0lSrDplo3vtaojw3VjZ8aCmTNPTgiO3ZbKptnhMyqSxIPX6fx2wDqSvR_HOTuS04PQW-P7Xglo5EntDBRB1nECvUAv1T_Dtd3ItbKpORsrlWM5ewaXAJOWjbgqt_GsX5gQ21_I/s1600/darcy1983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KaJMX0lSrDplo3vtaojw3VjZ8aCmTNPTgiO3ZbKptnhMyqSxIPX6fx2wDqSvR_HOTuS04PQW-P7Xglo5EntDBRB1nECvUAv1T_Dtd3ItbKpORsrlWM5ewaXAJOWjbgqt_GsX5gQ21_I/s320/darcy1983.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Self-Portrait from 1983 - Pencil on Newsprint</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-11919862536604254222012-09-07T20:22:00.002-07:002012-09-07T21:46:33.899-07:00Helping Hands<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The
art of helping is a delicate thing. There are so many different ways to do it
right and so many people doing the work. This is a good thing. Helping doesn't
necessarily mean we have to roll up our sleeves and get dirty. Sometimes
it’s as simple or maybe as difficult as writing a check and sending it in the
mail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Every
effective organization needs money to get the job done and that person, who
sent money instead of joining the mission, becomes an equal partner in the
solution. Everyone helps in his or her own way, and this is extremely
important. Who am I to tell anyone how or where they should direct their
energies to make a difference in this world of so many areas of need. I don't
think it matters how we help, what matters is that we do help. Purchasing Fair
Trade products or even buying a pair of Toms shoes helps someone else in the
world. Help is help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There
are people who change their world simply by the nature of their career or job.
My husband is a special education teacher and every day he is dedicated
to his work with students. He loves his job and has loved it for 25 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Nurses,
shelter employees, counselors and psychologists (and so many others) also heal,
protect, and listen to, interpret, advocate, assist, and on and on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
recently had the opportunity to meet another kind of job-related helper on a
team building challenge ropes course for our office retreat. Let's call
this helper "Travis."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">One
of the new terms I have learned through my job and our training workshops is
"Vegas Rules." You know, "What happens in Vegas, stays in
Vegas." I find I quite like this rule. I am bound by Vegas Rules not to
reveal any information about other people on this retreat. But, I do feel I can
share my personal experience because I have decided there is a true art to
facilitating a challenge course where participants are expected to expose
themselves and learn to trust their coworkers. And this facilitator is my
focus... well not really. This is about me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
have never participated in an event like this before and spent a great deal of energy trying to get out of attending. I somehow knew I would not like
to be "exposed" to this ropes course and imagined all nature of
horrors such as not being physically capable of mastering some of the unknown challenges
and facing humiliation, granted in my head, as I imagined people trying to push
my less than physically fit, 52 year old body over a wall like Richard Gere did
during the obstacle course scene in "An Officer and a Gentleman."
This is only a small example of what my mind was doing to myself and despite
all this, I did end up attending.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So,
about this helpful person... the moment Travis introduced himself and began to
lead us through the forest and had us doing simple exercises to determine how
well we worked as a team, I trusted him. I couldn't begin to define why this
was so, but maybe it began with his straight talk and direct eye contact. Those
mannerisms alone would be solid lead points for building trust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Travis
is a big man, sturdy and a little imposing with close-cropped hair, good skin
and a sense of humor. He exuded physical and mental strength, helpful qualities
for a man in his position.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He
also explained everything we were about to do and what he expected from us.
First thing, individuals have the right to exclude themselves from any activity
in which they do not wish to participate. Another important point he made
was a little explanation about comfort zones. He threw a few nylon
harnesses on the ground and arranged them like a target. He stood in the
smallest center circle and said, "This is your comfort zone." Then,
as he stepped out of the smaller circle into the larger circle, he said,
"this is your risk zone. This is where I want you to be today." Then
he stepped out of that circle into the unconfined area and said, "This is
the Death Zone. This is not where you want you to go today. We
clear?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This
little graph should help:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcPyRVwrJ5vo4jWUoZyuxDP9ydLSzEC6SvtckByzTqgJZ1pC66Hh7lOW2oORHJncxo4kr89lKnO5pr32_pkcexc2ydZNwFg7jgVezgR2tNoraykAPYeS2vqfEPlfVjTvoZ5vAGRrJ4E4/s1600/action-zones1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcPyRVwrJ5vo4jWUoZyuxDP9ydLSzEC6SvtckByzTqgJZ1pC66Hh7lOW2oORHJncxo4kr89lKnO5pr32_pkcexc2ydZNwFg7jgVezgR2tNoraykAPYeS2vqfEPlfVjTvoZ5vAGRrJ4E4/s320/action-zones1.png" width="320" /></span></a><br />
Most of the information out there refers to the outermost ring as the Panic Zone. Travis called it the Death Zone... I will stick with that.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
spend a great deal of time in my Comfort Zone. A huge part of my brain
spends time making sure people won't notice me, or more specifically, notice
that I am fat. It's a really silly exercise to think I can manipulate this
perception because, logically, I know people see me exactly how I am.
This fact doesn't hold much real estate in any practical region of my
brain. Emotionally, I've got the Klingons running all over the place, strapping
me into a cloaking device that indeed, hides me from all the perceived judgment
going on in my head while at the same time, keeps me firmly rooted in my boring
little Comfort Zone. Yes, that place where fear lives and action is limited or
sporadic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now,
here we are back at the challenge course and I am keeping up with my team.
We are weaving in and out of trees, suspended a foot or two above the
forest floor, by ropes, widely spaced 4x4 posts in the ground or large staples
protruding from the trees, creating a foothold. We must stay linked by a body
part, hand, foot, hips, etc., as we weave our way through the ropes. A quarter
of the way through the course and I'm sweating. If I shake my head, my
teammates would get drenched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Our
challenges have gotten more difficult and I have this thought in my head that
if I can do it, it's too easy. Is this the Risk Zone? My death zone would
have been falling off the course and making my team start all over again so I
am certainly not complaining as I hang on. We finally reach the end and I haven't
yet let them down and feel quite proud of that fact, when our guide
directs us to the area where we will really be tested.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We
enter a clearing in the woods and just beyond Travis' head, I see a clearing with a huge
wooden wall looming up into the trees. I swallow hard. <i>We are
here, not there, </i>I
tell myself and concentrate on the rules and directions our facilitator is
sharing with us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When
I refocus, I see that we are expected to climb, while strapped into a harness
and safety cables, 50 feet up a tree using those dratted staples that caused my
feet to scream at me while on the low ropes. We climb up and maneuver ourselves
onto a log suspended between two trees. Once on this log, we balance and walk
across, maybe 30 feet, ring a cowbell, turn and then walk back to the middle of
this beam. Once there, we turn around and sit back into the open air,
while our team brings us safely back to earth, where we kiss the ground and
thank Heaven we are back in the United States.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">While
Travis is tossing around what looks to me like diaper harnesses, I have
officially stepped into the Risk Zone. I am not looking at the trees anymore.
Nope. Who the hell cares about the trees, the balance beam, the cowbell... no I
am looking at these harnesses and they look soooo small. I can feel my
blood pressure rise as my coworkers are buckling themselves into these little
bits of nylon and steel. The vein throbs in my neck sparking the idea, "if
I have a heart attack, I will get out of this."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
look at Travis until he establishes eye contact and I ask him "who's got
the biggest harness?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He
points to one of the young men in our group. "He does."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
look over at the harness and watch as a slim, small stature man pulls the strap
tight over his stomach, which is an average-sized stomach, some would say even
normal for his height and weight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
glance back at Travis, who is probably quite intuitive and has continued to
watch me unravel in tiny degrees from 15 feet away. I know everyone can hear my
next words. "That is too small. It won't fit."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And
BAM! I'm in my Death Zone. I can feel myself tear up and I am trying not
to show my panic. Did <i>I just say that in public?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A
few minutes later, I am looking up at the young fit people climbing the pole
one after the other... success. Success. Success. I will not establish
eye-contact with anyone, except my coworker standing next to me, someone who is
actually closer to my age than anyone on my team, puts his arm around me and
says "its okay. Just go slow, work your way up and don't look down. You can
do it, Darcy." It occurs to me that I know I won't look down because
my stomach would just get in the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
did look him in the eye and nod. He was so nice to try to reassure me but I
can't maintain eye contact because, although my Death Zone receded a bit, I
know there is someone in this group who is now thinking about my stomach and
once I think about this fact, my Death Zone expands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">An
hour passes rather quickly and everyone has taken a turn… everyone except
me. Travis asks me if I would feel more comfortable in a full torso
harness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Will
it fit?" I don't say <i>me</i> because I am still doing that thing I
do where I try to make sure no one notices ME.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes."
He assures me and then walks through the group, down a path and disappears from
sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well
now I am all alone in the middle of this crowd. I didn't realize how much I
needed his calm assurance until I didn't have it to keep me from wondering what
the group was doing. It reminded me of labor made easier by having a focal
point. Travis was my focal point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As
the last one to climb the tree, I think everyone is watching and observing that
Travis is out of the area and I am not wearing a harness. I don't know if
they are thinking about my stomach, but I am and I can feel a surge of panic
like I have never felt in my life. It brings tears to my eyes just writing it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Travis
returns and I feel simultaneously reassured and panicky. He tosses this new
harness on the ground and arranges it so it looks like I am stepping onto his
version of the comfort zone target and I glimpse a fleeting thought that I am
so far away from safety, I can't remember how to get back, so I am obediently
following directions and ignoring the fact that he can't buckle this new super
huge harness over my stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
look at him and realize, it doesn't matter what I do now; I am exposed. The
tears begin falling in earnest although Travis has done nothing to spark
them... well other than get down on his knees in front of me and fiddle with my
harness. He keeps looking up at me, checking my status, I'm sure. Then he
stands, crosses his arms and contemplates my Death Zone... still, again, more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He
is as comfortable in his contemplation as I am uncomfortable with it and after
an excruciatingly long moment that was probably no more than three seconds, he
disappears from my sight again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
don't move. The straps around my upper thighs and over my shoulders restrain my
body. I have no idea what my team is doing... I can't even look at them.
I feel like the straps are pushing and pulling at me from behind but I know the
pressure point where the cables are attached so my people can bring me down
safely are in the front. I try to draw in a full breath but feel pressure
around my lungs like I do when I am having an asthma episode. My breathing
is shallow, as it tends to do when I speak in public. Given that, I know I have
three minutes before I start to see stars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
see his boots as he steps back into my personal bubble; Travis has three big hiking clips in his hand. As he clips them
across my body, I begin the sobbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He
looks me in the eyes and we are literally face-to-face. The knuckles of both
his hands are digging into my stomach as he checks the strength of the linked
hiking clips. "Are you okay?" This is the first time he has addressed
my panic issue and I feel like I am totally the wreck of the day. His
sincere eyes are searching mine for some sign of retreat. "You don't have
to do it," he says, as he stands ready to unhook everything he has just
rigged together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
can see it in his face. He will stand down, no judgment... just say the
word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It's
at this point it occurs to me that to everyone else, it might appear that I am
afraid of heights. Through my sobs I tell him "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm
just processing." I don't even know why I said that. I am
devastated and I am trying to reassure him that he doesn't have to worry about
me. <i>I'll be fine even though you just spent an hour in my "no-man's
land."</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"I
am not afraid of heights." I say and think to myself that he was
the only one who heard that as I move towards the tree, with the
soundtrack of my team shouting out encouragement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The
good news is now that my stomach isn't the center of attention, I stop crying
and get down to the business of climbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Some
would say I am a pessimist. Some people also might think a realist is a
pessimist but that is not always true. I think I am a realist in that I
know what my body can and can't do, which is why I wanted to stay home in my
comfort zone and not go on any ropes courses and not climb any trees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My
arms are just not strong enough to pull my weight up a 50-foot tree. I
knew I could only go up so far before my arms or my knees would give out. I
know this about myself. I am heavy and I cannot do chin-ups or knee-bends. I
know this and I wanted to do it anyway because I had to see how far I could
push myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The
climb was rough even from the start. That harness was so confining that
it felt like it took twice as much muscle to lift my legs up against the resistance
of the straps on my thighs. And as I hefted myself up each staple, I had to extend my arms to ease my stomach away from the tree and then up because the hiking
clips around my front kept snagging on the bark each time I took a step up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
knew that everyone was watching me, I wasn't imagining it. I could not hide on
that crawl up the tree. I also knew that Travis was keeping his eyes on me too.
He watched every person climb up that day and I felt his focus as he made
sure his contraption was doing it's job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That
day in the woods, I tried. I made it about 40 feet before I just couldn't
lift my arms up. I heard my team shouting "YOU CAN DO IT," but I knew
when my fingers were slipping from the staples and my legs seemed paralyzed I
was not going to get up to the beam. I saw it was about 10 feet away but
my arms were done. I couldn't do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It
was fine. I would have liked to have made it up and walked across the top of
the forest but it really didn't matter to me. I had already done the one thing
I never, ever do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
show people who I am in many ways in relationship to my work or my art. I
reveal my feelings all the time. I like people to know me as a wife, a mom, a
friend, an artist, a mission leader, a student, a coworker, a helping hand....<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The
fact is I am fat. That is not a slur or insult. It's just what it is. However,
I never point to my stomach and scream to the world "Look at this! Do you
see how this limits me?" That day in the woods as Travis was contemplating
my girth and carefully, creatively strapping me into the harness, I knew I was
pointing at my Death Zone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
was clearly upset by his attention or more accurately, at where it was
directed, but he never wavered in his calm matter-of-fact demeanor. Every move
he made that day and every comment he made was solid, get the job done,
attitude. I believe there is art to guiding people
through difficult hurdles. They must remain objective. He wasn't thrown off at
all by my unruly emotions. That was reassuring. Travis is worthy of
trust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When
I let go of the tree and was lowered to the ground, I was not disappointed at
all. I was exhausted, emotionally. I let Travis unhook me and I carried on.
I shouted to my teammates throughout the rest of the course, offering my
support for others, but not accepting invitations to climb any more
trees. Travis offered to strap me in again after everyone had jumped off
another tree onto a trapeze, but I declined. I didn't have enough left in
me to give everyone present another opportunity to see that I was not afraid of
heights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Early
in the day, when we were planning strategies for the low ropes and how we should
proceed through the course, I had expressed a thought that I would like to have
people who had done ropes courses before interspersed with inexperienced
individuals. The rest of the group didn't agree and continued to separate teams
based on experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Travis
said, "wait!" He looked around at everyone and said, "you have a
team member who just expressed a need and you ignored it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I,
like the rest of my coworkers, was perfectly willing to ignore my needs because
I moved right along to form a newbies team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When
Travis called us out, I was embarrassed, but I knew immediately that he was
there for each of us and like anyone who excels at their job, he would
facilitate this group in the best way possible, not just for me, but for
himself because he couldn't do any less. He did that when he didn't mince
words, made us listen, or when he challenged each team member to risk more, walk
backwards, do it blindfolded, take a risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
don't know if Travis understood what my problem was, or that it even mattered.
It was the way he handled it. No differently than he would for anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In
our meetings, after training sessions, we are asked, "What was the
takeaway from this experience?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well,
I am still fat and after you've read this I really have pointed to my stomach
and said, "Look!" No reason to pretend otherwise. Only time
will tell what I have learned from this experience. I think about how
lucky it was that my boss wouldn't let me off the hook and insisted I go on the
retreat because I would have felt so outside this excellent group of people,
had I not attended and learned about them and myself (not just on the ropes
course, but for the whole retreat.) My job requires me to create artwork
that will affect their events so we are tied together, invested in each other
and that’s a good takeaway.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As
for the rest? Acceptance is an art I have yet to master. I can learn from
Travis in the way he accepted what is real and relevant to the situation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
was horrified to have someone openly looking at and thinking about my
stomach. I had no idea how tightly I wrap my arms around my body to
protect me from being hurt or how my efforts to be liked make me hide myself to
try to make others more comfortable in my presence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
am at peace with the events of that day in the woods and I rather like that I
fell apart, because it really showed me where my absolute vulnerability
lies. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here's
a little gem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: inherit;"><i>There’s something liberating about not pretending. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6fa8dc;">Dare to
embarrass yourself. Risk. –</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> </span></i><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cfe2f3;">Drew Barrymore</span></i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I
can't pretend anymore.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXB5pxi6yCRI6vFr0eHPG38fyBCQf6kO1SMsikZR2U8cGU4v47KMpU6pJmC0e4lTK1-ftaoq0FwNad2RrWLkxv8FFQpRS3Y_ijh7xT8p9Ca-6oGiX_0BrYsZpHPkYjK6RMxUuRAeFsVUE/s1600/darcyRopesComposite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXB5pxi6yCRI6vFr0eHPG38fyBCQf6kO1SMsikZR2U8cGU4v47KMpU6pJmC0e4lTK1-ftaoq0FwNad2RrWLkxv8FFQpRS3Y_ijh7xT8p9Ca-6oGiX_0BrYsZpHPkYjK6RMxUuRAeFsVUE/s400/darcyRopesComposite.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">All Strapped In ---- Almost There ---- Coming Down</span></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-45342562780710621152012-08-14T19:30:00.001-07:002012-08-16T07:35:15.367-07:00Got Games?Our garage is stuffed to the rafters with bins full of games: old games, new games, parts of games. We do like a good game. Our friends refer to Gerard, my husband of 31 years, as "The GameMaster." We meet with them monthly for Game Night. Sometimes we play games that one of our friends have found or we play dominoes or a card game. Always Gerard reads the rules or informs the group how the game is played. None of us really have any interest in reading instead of visiting, so this arrangement works out quite well. He knows games and we trust him. Right?<br />
<br />
Growing up I didn't play many games but, Gerard and I began playing games before we were married in 1981. I remember the time my best friend, J.Patt and her partner were visiting. We played a game called Hand & Foot (similar to Canasta). It took me a while but I figured out that Gerard and J.Patt were cheating! I found out that he has a history of stacking the deck so other people would win. This particular incident was not for my benefit.<br />
<br />
Gerard loves to tell the story of when he and his brothers were playing Pinochle in Tacoma. Gerard had dealt all the cards out when one of his card loving, elderly relatives, Auntie Grace came out to the carport to see what they were up to. When she saw he had dealt a fresh set she said "let me take this hand." So David stepped out. <br />
<br />
Gerard offered to reshuffle but she insisted everything was fine as it was. After the exchange, she discovered she had a 1500 Pinochle in her hand she nearly hit the roof! She stopped the game (well it was really over anyway) and called all the relatives out to see this often heard of but never witnessed event. Auntie Grace told everyone she met about that hand. For years. The first time we were introduced, she mentioned this miracle to me.<br />
<br />
She never knew Gerard had rigged the deck to see the reactions of his brothers, not his aunt. Gerard confessed to his dad what he had done. His father wisely told him, "You can never tell her the truth, she will die believing she earned that 1500 Pinochle." (Auntie Grace has since passed away, so it's okay to go public with the story.)<br />
<br />
Gerard also loves to teach a new game. He taught me how to play cribbage, which is a counting game... I do not like counting, but I couldn't lose at this game. I asked if he was letting me win? He was adamant (not Adam Ant) and said he had tried to win. Most games he plays, he can win at some point, but he doesn't have to and it is nice to play with some one who doesn't have to win. (I prefer to win.)<br />
<br />
My GameMaster also loves to create games. We have worked together on many game projects over the years. He works out the strategy and details, I help with the graphics and design. This is a perfect blend of our talents. Even our kids get involved in playing the games and offering suggestions, helping us work out the kinks. Together we can create some pretty fun boards.<br />
<br />
To help with the chores, Gerard even invented a Clue-like game using our house but added in cleaning tasks that were to be completed. Each player would go from room to room and at a certain point in the game, everyone had to stop and clean in the area their playing piece had landed. It certainly added a different twist to cleaning and chores.<br />
<br />
One evening, while watching Late Night with David Letterman, one of our favorite programs, he decided to make a game from the show. Of course if you know David Letterman, it had to be called "Know Your Cuts of Meat." (Yes the game features a "Big Ass Ham.")<br />
<br />
Gerard spent hours researching different types of meats and their cuts and came up with hundreds of question cards. We included trivia about the band and funny incidents from certain episodes we had seen over the years, including Letterman's encounters with Richard Simmons and his "NOprah Oprah" campaign about not being invited on the Oprah Show.<br />
<br />
I enjoyed the making of this game. We worked on it together. It was time intensive and I loved working out all the details with Gerard. I had total freedom with the design and we put together an excellent board game. Those were fun times.<br />
<br />
We don't have much time these days with me back in school and starting a new job. Gerard is still working weekends to help pay for my schooling. Times are tough, but we still have our monthly game night dangling in front of us like a carrot keeping us moving forward to the prize. Our friends are good sports.<br />
<br />
We do love playing games. Everything I know about games, I learned from the GameMaster.<br />
<br />
Every now and then you gotta ask yourself, "Do I feel lucky?" I do. I got games... but I also have the GameMaster... so if we don't "got games," we can make 'em!<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoVkFIEaTwMiHZifAscf9Qkqk0JI9sDvZRL7e8p4UdjIpz4rxC3RLuAmzP0vKy2Z4-uE_vgK-5ZS2NRB4uT1yjuD9Caqfg8chxzQse-mNaZJ9-SqLEe2kIFHvUBQjnkzo1ijQC_u9Eiw/s1600/Cuts+of+Meat+Game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoVkFIEaTwMiHZifAscf9Qkqk0JI9sDvZRL7e8p4UdjIpz4rxC3RLuAmzP0vKy2Z4-uE_vgK-5ZS2NRB4uT1yjuD9Caqfg8chxzQse-mNaZJ9-SqLEe2kIFHvUBQjnkzo1ijQC_u9Eiw/s400/Cuts+of+Meat+Game.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Know Your Cuts of Meat Game by Gerard and Darcy Cline</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVBKJsrA31E7pBU4xVvfDlDH59yamoYmu3UwYcgN9Ano2RfnNzrM94nNWSOG4jNe9KMsg7eoa1fKKDXnrqb2CvokA66fat5jMg_hP29dqxYPY9KtfyVznZVOx9Yh-4YqyXdXX0S-i3qc/s1600/52BdayCake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVBKJsrA31E7pBU4xVvfDlDH59yamoYmu3UwYcgN9Ano2RfnNzrM94nNWSOG4jNe9KMsg7eoa1fKKDXnrqb2CvokA66fat5jMg_hP29dqxYPY9KtfyVznZVOx9Yh-4YqyXdXX0S-i3qc/s320/52BdayCake.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In our house, Gerard is also "The CakeMaster"</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-29238890640795977312012-08-04T00:00:00.001-07:002012-08-04T00:46:04.544-07:00Friends ForeverMarcella, Marcella, Marcella. Marcella Bateman died Wednesday night. She was 80 years old and was a member of my writers group, WWW (Wild Women Writers.) She got such a giggle out of that name. Marcella knew how to laugh. That, I think, was her special gift. That and writing... and being extremely kind... and a little bit naughty... and inspiring people to love her.<br />
<br />
The first time I saw Marcella, was in 1997 in Puyallup High School as I waited outside classroom 107. I had decided to take a writing class and I was watching the glass door as she stepped through, momentarily blocking the evening light.<br />
<br />
Our teacher for Fiction and Biography Writing was late. When instructors are late, I tend to doubt myself and I was feeling quite alone until this cute little dark-haired lady walked in, looking frustrated and a little frantic.<br />
<br />
She asked "are you waiting for Marjorie Rommel's class?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I am." I was instantly relieved to hear her speak that name. I was in the right place and so was she.<br />
<br />
"Oh, thank goodness." Out of breath, she continued on in a rush. "I parked clear on the other side of the building."<br />
<br />
Of Course I noticed the wheeled oxygen tank and the clear plastic tubing attached to her nose. She was winded but I couldn't offer her a seat in the hall so as other students arrived, I began to over-share my reasons for taking a writing class. "I was reading these novels... and they just didn't go along like I wanted them too... and my sister is a poet so I don't have any interest in poetry... I've never taken a writing class before... blah blah blah. I just kept chatting, because I was nervous about taking a writing class and I wanted the dark haired lady to catch her breath without actually pointing out, "you, my dear, are out of breath."<br />
<br />
I can't say for sure what she wore that day but after knowing her all these years, I find myself filling in those blanks with a floral, most likely blue or lavender polyester blend top with matching slacks, topped off with a sweater to keep her slight frame warm, her dark brown salon-do perfectly placed. I can picture her now, patting her hair to make sure it was presentable, her lips painted red and smiling a warm and welcome greeting. Marcella, neat and tidy, cared very much about her appearance.<br />
<br />
That day in the hallway, I think she must have had her folder in hand, filled with some of the biographical stories she wrote during her time as a clerk with the Puyallup Police Department, a job she felt lucky to have had along with funny stories of the Sweet Adelines and her stint as one of their members.<br />
<br />
That image is how I will always see Marcella. I am sure she would have preferred not to include the oxygen tank as part of who she was but, we don't get to choose how our friends will remember us. All of those things and how she cared about people is what I will smile about when I am not so sad at the loss of her. She was my dear friend.<br />
<br />
My association came after she was diagnosed with Pulmonary Hypertension: a result of her years of smoking, which she mentions in a poignant short story she wrote. Marcella was told to "get your affairs in order. You have about five years to live." That statement would be a difficult thing to hear from a doctor. But Marcella put a smile on and between her and Roy, they got her affairs in order and while they were at it, they got his in order too.<br />
<br />
After that first writing experience, I took another class, and another and yet another. Eventually, some of the women I met in these writing classes started a writers' group. What a novel idea. At the time of the first meeting, I couldn't participate, but I had made a strong connection with one of the ladies in the group and she invited me to come to a meeting. This is where I met some of the most wonderful women I have ever known and the Wild Women Writers were born.<br />
<br />
Marcella Bateman was part of this group.<br />
<br />
We met once a month and that didn't seem like enough time. We were all writing some very powerful words and each of our stories, like us, were so different. The creativity was limitless. At every meeting, I felt like I had stepped into this incredible world of fact and fantasy. For me, it was like a new awakening and I began to care very deeply for our little group and each of these ladies filled a different spot in my heart. We spent our first hour visiting and catching up on the events of our daily lives. The second hour was for our writing. <br />
<br />
In this lovely, safe and creative atmosphere, I developed a friendship with Marcella. She was always such a positive influence in the way she carried herself everyday and in her writing. She wrote non-fiction and was very careful to write positively about people she worked with over the years. That was her main concern. She asked us on more than one occasion, "Do you think that would hurt their feelings?"<br />
<br />
I visited Marcella at her home on Wednesdays and we became close. Her focus shifted after her husband, Roy died. She went from working on compiling her stories for a book, to cleaning out the house and making it easier for Tina and Penny, her daughters, in anticipation of her own death which the doctors told her should have occurred years ago. She showed them!<br />
<br />
As part of her "clearing out" plan, she wrote vignettes about the
history of heirlooms that she and Roy had collected over the years. She attached the story and
then gave them to family members that could relate to those items. I
always thought these were incredibly kind gifts. <br />
<br />
When my family moved out of the area, I didn't see that much of my writers. I missed my Wednesdays with Marcella. The WWW continued to meet and those group meetings got me through each month. I missed my chats with Marcella, but we did talk on the phone occasionally.<br />
<br />
The most difficult thing about Marcella being gone, is that I know time got away from us. I hear about this kind of thing happening often; we get busy, we don't make time and we miss out. I am sad because I missed her and will continue to miss her, I know Marcella wouldn't want me to be sad. She would want me to think of her and smile... to remember the music and the laughter that were the life-force she shared with us in our meetings and as a friend. She also would want us to reminisce about her writing. She was a terrific writer of nostalgia and the documentation of her family history, stories she told with love and care. <br />
<br />
This is who Marcella, my friend was...is for me. A kind spirit. I know she would love for us to be BFFs. I can almost hear her giggle, nudge Roy and wink at us from heaven. Best friends forever.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2y-mDeah_sST6srujog4OdEJTFYMZin7MGtWGtLQ3Mgxfo8940uMQrLYdiJgqJQZN_uQoCsMjR0eEPX8CX7Vp8RZeOJSHy-LYTyRj1J1etXgFxFlOjikEVrtkjEwB56VugotEuCvZeg/s1600/Marcella&Darcy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2y-mDeah_sST6srujog4OdEJTFYMZin7MGtWGtLQ3Mgxfo8940uMQrLYdiJgqJQZN_uQoCsMjR0eEPX8CX7Vp8RZeOJSHy-LYTyRj1J1etXgFxFlOjikEVrtkjEwB56VugotEuCvZeg/s320/Marcella&Darcy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcella and Me at her 80th Birthday party.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-28546862986564524362012-07-29T00:05:00.000-07:002012-07-30T07:26:51.908-07:00Everything Easy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In an earlier post, Cliches and Courage, I wrote "I wish I was easier." I often ruminate on this topic of not relaxing into life as it is before me. I don't do relaxation very well. I worry over unknown details, what ifs and impossibilities. In my head, I reserve a large amount of mental stock for mulling and stewing. This constant, low-level anxiety colors my world with muddy paint and adds a stroke of dissatisfaction to the canvas of life, leaching joy from what could have been a cache of fine moments.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Even as I write this, I over-think to myself, "aren't I just sharing my worry about worrying over worrying... blah blah blah blah." Well now you've had a tiny peek inside my head and thats enough for the general public, because it can be quite toxic. I attempt to keep a harness on this gremlin. I don't appreciate this characteristic about myself but it is part of me and who I am, which is actually a person I have come to like.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If I were easier, I wouldn't think about things like this. But, I like that this makes me very particular about my art and at the same time, it can turn on me and cause me to doubt my ability. It's the two sides of Lake Washington when driving on the floating bridge, one side calm and shiny, the other side rough and choppy. I know that I can produce beautiful artwork and yet, I am such a perfectionist about it that it can be a real challenge to just say "its finished. Step away from the canvas."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In my beginning painting class, I was recreating magnified marbles when I got too far ahead of myself and painted in some of the foreground before the background was settled. I couldn't let it go and ended up painting over it to redraw the light and reflections within the marbles. I was much more at peace with the decision to redo it than I would ever have been to carry on to the end, ignoring the flaws that would have bedeviled me until I destroyed the painting just to put my mind at ease.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This last Winter Quarter in intermediate painting, as a class assignment, I began a triptych of our family church in Iowa. A landscape was a subject I hadn't attempted to this point. So, I blocked in the areas where the trees, church and family members would be painted in but the placement of the church was awkward. The composition refused to flow with comfort. I washed it away and painted it back in three separate times. That darn church refused to cooperate and time was compressing quickly towards the deadline and critique. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Frustrated, I brought the three canvases home and painted over them... goodbye winter trees, goodbye quaint little church, goodbye beloved relatives. Instead of the old fashioned sepia toned painting I envisioned, I brushed blue acrylic over the images and the canvases took on the new life of a tattooed woman, a messy bouquet and a room that looks a bit like a Piet Mondrian Painting. These new and interesting characters emerged from the troubled canvases and saved my grade.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The worrying perfectionist who insisted on changing subjects at the last possible moment is the driving force that makes my art better. It is also the force that contributes to my insomnia and my non-sensical anxiety. This Negative Nellie inside my head is also responsible for projects started but never finished. After all, if it isn't finished, it can hardly fail. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That debilitating "fear of failure," is a real creativity killer and it swings around the coattails of my perfectionism, sometimes succeeding in it's purpose of knocking over my confidence and making me doubt. Which then forces a start to stop. I have a garage full of bins that are loaded with unfinished projects. Even as I sit here writing this, I have two portraits that have given me pause, eight sewing projects that got hijacked for one reason or another and ten half-written novels that were promising, yet abandoned... and as a result of the distant fear, remain unfinished.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't usually spend much time worrying about the projects that haven't made it to the end. They don't matter all that much in the day to day workings of my mind. What matters are the completed pieces. These projects are my favorites. I can gaze upon them and see a wonderfully fullfilled work regardless of all the flaws I should have fixed but didn't because I finally told myself to step away.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These are the images I lay awake at night dreaming about before I fall asleep.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If everything was easier, if I was easier, I wouldn't care so much. I would be able to do my job and go home, not taking my emotional load with me. I could turn in work that was good enough and forget the part that, to my eye is incongruent, but to everyone else is fine. I would never have to paint over an image because there was something out of place, some little thing that would not leave me in peace. I could create and walk away without another quarter of my mental energy given over to the details.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well, that's not me. A few years ago, after I apologized for an awkward moment at work, my boss said "don't worry about it. We are who we are." I loved that comment. It doesn't mean that a statement like that gives me permission to ditch my efforts at being a better person, but it does speak to me in that I am okay. I will always worry and stress over my work, life, crimes against children, calderas, world peace, destructive meteors, aliens, etc. etc. etc....</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But this year, my perfectionism landed my art in the Pierce College Student Art Show. The poor little lost church and trees under The Blue Room Triptych can share some of that glory because that piece also won the purchase award and is now in the permanent art collection of Pierce College. Not too shabby for having such a rough start.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I made it clear that I worry about a lot of nothing and in other areas of my life I don't always like it. But when it comes to art, it works for me. </span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhNbt71pw_NomrEUKXwCNhJ8QpIq1qN7ky5hzBFklcu58wnz-EXipMX-EilHxuIvUieuts_r3jCbaO6pYI5ipADN0ylTX1LRPldcqSRlXvGB20SPCGcVe_v7_ed6UPouGp9Vw_8rJJvo/s1600/BlueRoomTriptych.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhNbt71pw_NomrEUKXwCNhJ8QpIq1qN7ky5hzBFklcu58wnz-EXipMX-EilHxuIvUieuts_r3jCbaO6pYI5ipADN0ylTX1LRPldcqSRlXvGB20SPCGcVe_v7_ed6UPouGp9Vw_8rJJvo/s400/BlueRoomTriptych.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Room Triptych © 2011 by Darcy Cline<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-11865680262192414362012-07-24T01:03:00.002-07:002012-07-29T18:37:01.291-07:00Dear Debra<br />
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My favorite Poet of all time is my sister. Since I wasn't much of a reader until after high school, I listened to her read her poetry through most of elementary school and junior high. She is the most prolific writer I know. Debra is one of those people who will stop in the middle of a discussion, grab a napkin and scribble a poem out within a few minutes and then jump back into the conversation as she tucks the napkin into her purse. It can be a bit unnerving until she reads the story on the napkin. And then it is a little bit of magic.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><b>Old Moon<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">How captured we this night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">In lustrous light unfold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">He said to cast the newer stars<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It is because the moon is old<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">How laid upon the grasses dew<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The light kept we from cold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Encompassed in this starry night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It is because the moon is old<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">How can you claim these magic things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">In these stories that you told<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">He said look hard upon that rock<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It is because the moon is old<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">That rivers rise next to the sea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">That oceans cover shores<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">That in your eyes is everything<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">That I’ve loved no one more<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">How captured you my heart this night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">That makes me one so bold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">And pressed my lips to yours and said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It is because the moon is old</span></div>
<br />
Old Moon is one of many favorites she has written.<br />
<br />
Growing up, we were labeled early on. Debra was the writer, I was the artist. We spent most of our childhood firmly in our corners. When we crossed into each others' territory, we were not cheered on for the effort. We definitely didn't invite each other to experiment into our own niches. What if I was really the writer and she was the artist? What would have happened then?<br />
<br />
I remember writing a poem in seventh grade. It began, "I like Sid, but he likes Sally..." Debra should not feel threatened by my foray into poetry, although, I do remember everyone making a fuss about it and "wasn't it so cute."<br />
<br />
Debra rarely heard those words. No one really understood her poetry and even though I had been listening to it going on four years by the time I had written my Sid and Sally poem, I understood half of what she read to me. I can appreciate her way with words now that I have become a reader.<br />
<br />
Over the years she dabbled in art and created a few beautiful drawings to prove to herself she could, but still was more writer than artist as the poems seemed to march right out of her fingertips, filling notebook after notebook, as the notebooks stacked up and spilled out of boxes under the bed.<br />
<br />
In 1997, I took my first Marjorie Rommel writing course at Pierce College. I found I had a lot to say. I wrote a few poems... okay limericks, (I am not bad at writing limericks.) What I discovered was I liked writing wordy short stories and have since written over a hundred pieces. I also finished a novella. I was rather proud of myself for that. But under all this personal growth, was the fear that I wasn't a writer. My sister had that wrapped up.<br />
<br />
What we didn't learn when we children was that talent is very much like love. It scoops you up and makes you feel happy, warm and confident. It's there when you need it. It is more intimate when given attention. But most importantly, it is limitless. Like love, there is enough for everyone.<br />
<br />
My sister and I have fought through the hard times of our youth to
become the best of friends. We designed matching tattoos to commemorate our survival. I share my art and writing with her and she
does the same with me. Debra has become a wonderful and interesting
painter with a very different style than my own. She has painted
several paintings this year and has created enough work to have a solo
show. What I would really love is to have a show together. Now that
would be crazy fun! <br />
<br />
Debra is still writing profusely and reads to me whenever we talk,
mostly through Skype. It's a very comforting feeling I bring with me
from my childhood, the beauty of her voice and the way she wraps her
words around me. When I listen to her, I know her.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I painted a portrait of hands. It was a study of
style and process. I shared my progress with my sister and she asked
"would you mind if I painted the picture as well?" I thought is was an
interesting experiment and so we have painted our own versions of the
same picture.<br />
<br />
I hold these two paintings close to my
heart. They are tightly wrapped up in old rivalry and competition, of
talent, love and acceptance. We thought we were so different, but we are
more alike than anyone knew.<br />
<br />
Now they know.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZWRbBFxynQWFulzBvwPvWKTpoAgZHgGXuCkWupAJsbXwAXZd_HNr2lzoE96d92SxDJz24RMz4jeGF1NYKyXRNzfh8mGX1bS-aBQO6qs48U3invjBvKLpp9kf18YDh-gLQ1kyUR7ox-g/s1600/407449_10150539338538654_1356754920_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZWRbBFxynQWFulzBvwPvWKTpoAgZHgGXuCkWupAJsbXwAXZd_HNr2lzoE96d92SxDJz24RMz4jeGF1NYKyXRNzfh8mGX1bS-aBQO6qs48U3invjBvKLpp9kf18YDh-gLQ1kyUR7ox-g/s320/407449_10150539338538654_1356754920_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hands © 2012 Debra Gordon</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-21045836022757854962012-07-15T22:43:00.000-07:002012-07-27T01:54:43.777-07:00Clichés and Courage"Real courage is risking one's clichés.” <br />
― Tom Robbins, <i>Another Roadside Attraction</i><br />
<br />
Be careful what you wish for... such a cliché. I shake my head at the ease with which I ignore a lesson my writing mentor, Marjorie Rommel, instilled in me; "Don't be cliché. Be an original."<br />
<br />
Oh, but there are so many fun clichés out there champing at the bit and so little time, so let me bend your ear for a moment and indulge before we get down to brass tacks.<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, I am back in the saddle again attending school and wishing the dog ate my homework. I feel like I have hopped out of the frying pan and jumped into the fire. Being a student is much harder than I imagined it would be. More fool I.<br />
<br />
This week, I feel like I have bitten off more than I can chew. The homework assignments are steamrolling over me at a hefty pace. I barely have enough room to draw a breath. I imagine my teachers plotting and planning their next academic assault over an open fire, stirring a pot of "double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and caldron bubble." (Shakespeare, <i></i><i>MacBeth;</i> The original original)<br />
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I know I can rise to the challenge and do the job right, but I do have my doubts. Did I mention how hard it was shaping up to be all I can be? Maybe I could boost my spirits by telling myself "what doesn't kill me makes me stronger..." Geez, I almost threw up on that one.<br />
<br />
In all seriousness, I am thrilled and scared to my toes to be going back to school. It is so much more challenging than I thought it would be. My fellow students seem so secure and skilled in this newfangled software we are learning. I know I needed this desperately to deepen my understanding of the digital world, but it's moving so fast, it really knocks me for a loop. My doubts land hard and heavy on my mind: what if everything I learned becomes obsolete before the year is out? It has happened before.<br />
<br />
The year I graduated from college in 1987, computers became the new black and hijacked my career. All the practical tools of the job I was an expert in, disappeared and were replaced by computer programs. No one was cutting rubylith for color separations, typesetting could be done by the receptionist, desktop publishing brought its own garish ease to the masses. With a click of a little gray button, the computer could magically produce in minutes, documents that took me hours to create. <br />
<br />
I rallied, though. I soldiered on. I bit the bullet and headed back to the drawing board!<br />
<br />
I taught myself the programs I needed to become employable... just one year after achieving my BA in Graphic Design. I find myself awed by the power of technology. It amazes and excites me and I feel very blessed to have this opportunity to rediscover the art of Graphic Design in this shifting world of brain-bending discoveries. It boggles the mind, it does, when its not being difficult.<br />
<br />
And now, I have come full circle, embracing the new, intricate, crazy technology within my reach. I am strong and grabbing the bull by the horns on this challenge of becoming a better designer and a more thoughtful artist. But, holy cow, its draining.<br />
<br />
I fall in to bed at night exhausted because really, it's already the edge of tomorrow. I'm thankful to have a family that understands the total emotional and physical toll taken by creating art with passion and being a scosche of an overachiever... who rests the weight of the world on each assignment. <br />
<br />
I told a fellow classmate that I had stayed up too late doing homework and I was exhausted. She laughed and said "Four days into the quarter? You're supposed to save that for the end."<br />
<br />
I sometimes wish it was easier, wish I was easier, but that really isn't my style. I am a bit competitive.<br />
<br />
When I hand my teacher the assignments... these are the times when it can be overwhelming to be so exposed. To have the contents of my mind on display. To be given a value that tells me what my intellectual property is worth... taking no accounting of its value to me. <br />
<br />
My success, when measured by me, is revealed to me when I complete a project that has claimed a large portion of real estate in my brain for hours, days or weeks. I don't always want to share the results of that residency, but I am compelled to seek out someone and wait for judgement. Some people are going to love my designs. Some people will not. Everyone has an opinion and this year, mine isn't the only one that holds weight in matters of the art.<br />
<br />
Living a creative life takes courage and I don't think that's cliché.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Four Seasons </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">© 2012 Darcy Cline </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Bubbles</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> © 2012 Darcy Cline </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-21367683531426247752012-07-12T22:28:00.000-07:002012-07-24T23:44:43.483-07:00Building BlocksToday, I want to be a print maker. <br />
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Eighteen years ago I created a series of stencil prints to be used as invitations to my sister-in-law's baby shower. Ah, it was a clever little print, and a limited edition as well. I wonder if anyone still has their invitation pressed lovingly into a scrapbook or picture frame. I would like to say the last known print was sold at auction for thousands of dollars. Surely it is worth more than the paint I used to render it... now that I have publicly claimed my Artistness?<br />
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This long lost piece of art was a primitive black printed pregnant figure sporting a baby bump that was stenciled with a purple area cut out in the shape of a baby. The silhouette of the mom was celebrating, arms raised. I dusted it with glitter and sent it off with much love and satisfaction. The baby shower had a good showing as well as the baby, Mackenzie, my Goddaughter.<br />
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In the months following the shower, I created another stencil design for a sponsored team in the MS Walk. I recall that I stenciled shirts into the wee hours of the morning. This was my last stencil print project.<br />
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We all had small children then and the feeling of how much I loved that process fell away from my consciousness in the busy world of raising a family. That was okay. I didn't ponder the loss because I was busy making fantastic art with my kids, turning them into crazy little creative art making machines. Fun times.<br />
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But, back to building blocks... several quarters ago my painting teacher and renowned artist, David Roholt (www.davidroholt.com), introduced me to the art of the solar print. (Imagine a hundred Angels singing as the sun streams through the clouds.)<br />
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The process. I love the process. It requires devotion and concentration and patience and love. The drawing is transferred. The image is etched and then the emulsion is washed away revealing a relief impression. It is quite a moment to see the emerging image as the plate sets. <br />
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The ink is mixed, worked and warmed, the paper is soaked in water. This oil-based color is then worked into the impression with a tulle type material, then carefully wiped away leaving the outline of the final image in reverse. The inked plate is placed on the press, a damp piece of paper is arranged carefully over the top and then a crank rolls the weighted drum over the art leaving the image and a plate impression on the paper.<br />
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It took five hours to pull fifteen prints for my first solar print edition. I have managed to streamline the process to two hours. I am proud of that, even though I feel it is the timeframe of a beginning print maker. For many people, this process would be mind-numbing torture. In this world of instant gratification we don't really wait for anything that takes longer than five minutes.<br />
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In my Print Making Independent Study, I have since added linocut and mezzotint prints to my portfolio, and am preparing to create a multi-block print in which the time for this process will be multiplied by four.<br />
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I do admit to wanting to be an expert printmaker now. Not after years of practice and experience. I want to know what it is that makes a stellar print and what makes a mediocre print. What makes a fine artist and when will that artist know how fine they are? I don't want to wait for it.<br />
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This year, Mackenzie, turned eighteen and graduated from high school with my daughter, Hannah, who was featured in the photograph in my Art Awakening post. These young ladies are stellar people. They didn't instantly transform into the confident young women they are today. They had many trials and lessons to live through before we would even think of sending them out on their own to attend college across the state.<br />
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I know that their success was achieved through years of practice and experience. They needed the time to grow and change and mature... like every good print maker, I know that only experience can make the difference between being okay and being spectacular. <br />
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I will work towards spectacular, but I can't keep from hoping... does that eighteen year-old stencil print count and have I been a print maker all this time, like an emulsified image waiting to finally emerge?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoXRZ0GZ0c4Yaf76OxFgqlimoeSVf4MZ06w0qSE0qdm7VJSjdLbMLswDpCtH21nt_MkY5TFa-2iYUFL_4kY4eFHa6c59isHWA__4DnC_wKMYmVxVolfXIZIYEuBypsv1BEwWIbbz4yuJu/s1600/Celebrate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoXRZ0GZ0c4Yaf76OxFgqlimoeSVf4MZ06w0qSE0qdm7VJSjdLbMLswDpCtH21nt_MkY5TFa-2iYUFL_4kY4eFHa6c59isHWA__4DnC_wKMYmVxVolfXIZIYEuBypsv1BEwWIbbz4yuJu/s320/Celebrate.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span>Celebrate - Stencil Print ©1994 Darcy Cline</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2rPKQvZqUZCP6Lo3RLWbnTGTpmh-YYzY3rBeH3tDI5ema9W-G2ec73wChP64Bu_UPLQyWQ1ZNbWGFjJ_G9mf0h7223HKs1ni6CDU08kjT6l6MAqlrkTuOD4B65pJ1XJQcCYr2gsYSYhd/s1600/9Months.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2rPKQvZqUZCP6Lo3RLWbnTGTpmh-YYzY3rBeH3tDI5ema9W-G2ec73wChP64Bu_UPLQyWQ1ZNbWGFjJ_G9mf0h7223HKs1ni6CDU08kjT6l6MAqlrkTuOD4B65pJ1XJQcCYr2gsYSYhd/s320/9Months.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">9 Months - Linocut Print © 2012 Darcy Cline</td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569838760826721826.post-42632435474112221602012-07-10T17:06:00.000-07:002012-07-24T23:45:18.450-07:00Art AwakeningToday is the day I became an artist. Today is the day I was born. <br />
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Every morning my alarm crashes into my peaceful slumber and I am startled awake. I open my eyes and immediately, I am thinking about art. <br />
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Before I go to sleep at night and finally commit to keeping my eyes closed, I study the photos on my iphone... photos I have taken of art I created. Snapshots of paintings, photographs, linocuts and solar prints, pen and ink drawings and graphic artwork that I am paid to design. I fall asleep with new ideas of possibilities swirling through my mind as art builds creativity. It is an awesome vertigo.<br />
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I have been an artist for most of my life (I believe I was born to it), but just last year, after turning 51, I introduced myself as an "Artist" for the first time. An acquaintance asked "What do you do?" I replied "I am an Artist." It was freeing in a way that had me feeling a bit giddy and made my eyes water. I turned away and cleared my throat. Saying it was so simple.<br />
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In relationship to my art life I have introduced myself as a Graphic Designer, Freelancer, Crafter and Creative Person. I have never fully owned that part of myself that was different from others in my awesome ability to see and interpret the world creatively. My father was an Artist but was raised by a fisted hand and learned the harsh truth that being an Artist was unacceptable. Artists did not earn enough money to feed a family, or even themselves. So my father went on to be a Fireman, leaving his art to an idle pastime.<br />
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Given this background, my Art Self was not encouraged. I somehow managed to quiet the voices of my upbringing and became a Graphic Designer. I have never looked back. I feel that I was meant to be a Graphic Designer. I am very good at this, but I have always longed for a more artistic origin. I found myself wishing I had spent time in college learning the fine arts: The painting, the sculpting, the photography.<br />
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Well all is not lost! To my great relief, there is no age limit on learning. I am back in college and I am getting schooled in the latest the Communications Art field has to offer this pre-computer graduate. While updating my BA in Graphic Design with an AA in Digital Design, I am exploring my Fine Art Self along the way in Beginning and Intermediate Painting, in Advanced Drawing, in Independent Study Printmaking and in Digital Photography. This move towards Fine Art validates what I perceived to be my long-lost dream of becoming an Artist. <br />
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What I failed to realize in my early days in college, was that I was born and therefore, I became an Artist. I was there all along living the dream of creating something beautiful, creative, striking or profound. Or simply making silly marks on paper, conveying an idea, writing a lovely word... being an Artist.<br />
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My Art Self has always had a special way of seeing. I see beauty in everything on this earth. I especially see beauty in faces and characters and I thrive on recreating that in my art. Yes, My Art. The words of an Artist.<br />
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You see, when my alarm shouts its reveille, it is waking me to my dream... the dream I am born to every day of my Artist Life.<br />
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Darcy Cline - Artist.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGVIjkfO-BUfFfDnsQjk_wcz3eE-ofetzqN_XyNdykeQU4zJE1Q8vD3lGh7XL1j1pwhM6_qpb4Aau6PCMUOuK3Uk490z6S1HjB87MPJxorhqKu0ZVi5T0h8_dvqG3iXa7sZHa8JholyzA/s1600/dCline_Assign3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGVIjkfO-BUfFfDnsQjk_wcz3eE-ofetzqN_XyNdykeQU4zJE1Q8vD3lGh7XL1j1pwhM6_qpb4Aau6PCMUOuK3Uk490z6S1HjB87MPJxorhqKu0ZVi5T0h8_dvqG3iXa7sZHa8JholyzA/s320/dCline_Assign3.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zebra Girl - © 2012 by Darcy Cline</td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5