Some Big Old News

What a surreal start to 2017....

Never mind the current political situation, which is the very definition of 'surreal.' (I'm GUTTED, so please don't ask me about it....). What's also surreal (to me) is that I’ve already sold a piece of art in the New Year, and it's not even Fest season! And -- I sold it from my new 'away' studio.

I haven't told you about my new 'away' studio yet. It's the Big Old News that this post is about, and it came into my life last fall.

I turned 60 in October right after Fest. I felt good about this milestone (30 was hard, 40 was harsh, 50 was better, but 60? 60's awesome!) A big birthday deserves something big, and I wanted to do something special for myself. My own Girlz gifted me a future trip to Disneyland, and that was bigger than anything I could imagine or afford, but none of the ideas I'd been tossing around in my head seemed to really ring my bells.... 

In talking later with my Eldest, our conversation turned from our impending Disney trip to housework and how hard it is to spend more than five minutes being creative in one's upstairs studio when there's so much downstairs that needs doing more. She reminded me of something we've both said to each other before, that art is a much bigger priority than dusting. And she suggested that what I really needed was a way to shut the door on Tumbledown and go somewhere else to be creative. 

That was exactly what I needed.

And I wanted that to be my gift to myself. Just imagining it gave me goosebumps....

I will say now that I've never felt that I deserved an 'away from home' studio. Those are for real artists who create real art, and even after 30 years I still consider myself someone who draws and doesn't necessarily know what she's doing when she does. And in my head, a home studio is just an extra bedroom where a creative person indulges their hobby.... Please know that every home studio I've EVER been in has challenged that idea, and I only seem to associate this definition with myself. Probably because as a kid I'd hole up in my bedroom to create and my Mom would interrupt to tell me that if I couldn't find something better to do, she'd find it for me. And there was ALWAYS something better to do. So me going to my home studio now (aka an extra bedroom in disguise) just feels like my childhood self, shirking responsibility.

After talking to my Eldest that afternoon, the idea of an 'away' studio was all I could think about. For days afterward she texted me links on Craigslist for studio spaces, but everything was either unaffordable or too far away. (And there I was, with no car and no money....) She didn't give up on me, though, and her eagerness to find a studio for me made me eager as well, and I spent long moments scrolling through photos online of little empty spaces in town that were available for a fortune, and big empty spaces in town that were available for even more....

That little window on the right? MINE!

Then -- and I still don't know how this happened; I swear the fairies worked their magick! -- my online surfing turned up a website for a local non-profit. And buried in its webpage info was a little blurb about available studio space. I texted the link to my Eldest, just kidding that perhaps I'd 'found the Right Place, haha!' And she texted me back: 'CALL THEM.'

But I was afraid to. I didn't want to be disappointed!... So instead, what did I do? I drove past the building with my Youngest, just to size it up, gauge my feelings for the place. I saw that the non-profit was part of a collection of offices there, and attached to the building was a teen shelter. It fed the prepare-to-be-disappointed part of me, and I told myself that I was right to reject it sight unseen. And later, when my Eldest phoned to follow up, I lied and said I'd left a message with the place and they'd yet to return my call....

So much treasure to collect on my way!

That lie kept me awake all night I was that disappointed with myself, and the next morning I phoned the number and prepared to REALLY leave a message. But instead of voicemail a delightful woman named Susan answered. And absolutely everything she relayed to me about the space in question made my socks go up and down. She made arrangements to show it to me later in the week. But after I hung up, I immediately phoned back to tell her I was too excited to wait and could I please see it that afternoon?....

The place was only a couple miles away from Tumbledown, and I quickly began walking there in the autumn sunshine, enchanted by the unfamiliar route there that I didn't even know existed. What sorcery was this that took me along this new and beautiful path, full of autumn leaves and river views?? It seemed too good to be true.

Can you BELIEVE this WALK?

Susan met me at the door and introduced me to her husband Larry and their dog Buddy before happily showing me the space -- a little walk-in closet of a room, complete with a hand-me-down art table, a window with a venetian blind overlooking a working classroom, and another window overlooking what appeared to be a storage cubby with a skylight. I thought it was PERFECTION. I learned that each of the studio spaces (there were three at the time, only one of which was available) had nicknames, and the one I was being shown was the Georgia O'Keefe room. Appropriate, I thought, for 60-year-old me. I'd've written a first-month check for it right then and there, but wanted everyone associated with the non-profit to meet me first and decide if I was a good fit. (Seeing as how I wasn't a real artist, y'know. See how my head works??)

I met the others the next day -- kindred spirits, all -- and was pleased when they accepted me. And later that afternoon I brought a grocery bag full of supplies to my new studio.

At first, it was hard to relax there. Everything seemed so uncomfortable, like a house is when you haven't really moved into it yet but you want to be there all the time and your stuff is still back at the old house.... Even though there was food and pop for sale, I brought my own. Even though there was a watercooler there for all to use, I brought my own water bottle. I thought of Susan and Larry as my hosts and I was a guest in their home, and I didn't want to appear like I was taking this amazing opportunity for granted or taking advantage of their generosity.

The hand-me-down drawing table!

That was in October, and I've since settled in. I even had a teensy Open Studio event, too, which is something I've never done in my life. It was a far bigger success than I could've imagined, and the dear friends who visited me during that time taught me to see it all with a new perspective: I'm an artist. I deserve this.

Now, just approaching that silly old cobbled-together building fills me with joy. Entering it is like storming Fort Knox: two doors with fussy locks try to thwart me but I’ve almost got the hang of them now, and inside is TREASURE. First up is a room full of creative anticipation, with tables and supplies just waiting for some happy little artists to pull up their chairs and get to work. 

My own closed door almost hums as I approach it. And when I enter and close it again, that vibration is now inside of me. I feel like I've just walked in to a job I love like crazy, and I'm excited to get to work.

Happy New Year!

I love that old building’s smell and the clank of its furnace and the hum of its lights. I love the dark hallway to the cantina with its string of purple fairy lights threaded through the suspended ceiling. I love the closets stuffed with canvases and clays, paints and pastels, pencils and brushes, and the colorful creations displayed on walls and shelves and tables. I love when the classroom is in operation and I can hear things that I've never heard before, along with things I have: It's OK to use a different color, it's OK to make a mistake, it's OK to do it your own way.... 

It may have taken a lifetime, but I appear to be in Art School after all! 

And I'm an artist, dammit. I've always been an artist! And I deserve this.

...

Happy New Year

Yes, I know I haven't written.... I haven't written for a long, long time.

But I won't begin this powerful new year with an apology. Instead, I'll say, "Thank you for still being here to read this little message."  

Thank you.

Thank you with all my heart.

Thank YOU.

Love,
...me.

Savoring the Season

This time of year makes my socks go up and down....

But it's packed full of activity -- family birthdays, my OWN birthday, the end of Fest followed by all the post-Fest clean-up and the post-Fest art commissions and the post-Fest recovery period. And don't forget my favorite holiday: Halloween.

The season deserves all my attention, though, it's that spectacular. I wish it wasn't so brief.... I could spend whole hours/days/weeks just being still and watching it, feeling the temperature changes, following each leaf as it falls, enjoying the fragrance of loam and woodsmoke, wishing on each milkweed seed as it floats away....

But by the time I stop to do this, it seems I'm already smelling snow. Autumn is curled up and sleeping, and I have yet to rake her leaves! And so I don't.... I don't put the gardens to bed either. I leave them wild and shaggy like little enchanted forests full of burrs and brambles, where rabbits hunker and mice burrow under the leaves....

Maybe it's just that I can't bear to let go of my season. If I rake, if I garden, it's like I've tucked it all away like my Halloween decorations, to be forgotten about until the holiday sneaks up on me again and I hurriedly pull them out and enjoy them briefly without really smelling the candles and tasting the pumpkin spice and wearing the witch's hat....

My season deserves to be savored.

And so THAT is what is on my list today. Savor the season. And do it all again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Join me.

Dear You

So much to tell you,
So much to share....
And I will; I promise.
But for the moment I need
A bit more pencil time,
A bit more Autumn,
A bit more silence
(No -- a LOT more silence)
Until I can find my words.
I hope that's OK....

Love,
...me.

The Leafling Story

I don't have time for blogging today, I really don't. But it's time to talk about this. I just hope I can do so without sounding too stupid....

Not long ago, I had an emotional crisis while watching news reports about terrorist attacks and police shootings and Donald Trump, climate change, parents murdering their children, floods and fires and fill-in-the-blank. The whole world was in chaos and needed help, and here I was with nothing at all to offer.

It was about that time that I began creating my leaflings. I'd go for a walk, find a leaf, take it home, and draw on it; wash, rinse, repeat. Faces, mostly. Sometimes I'd write a wish on the back -- "Mother Earth, may your heart be healed" -- things like that. Then I'd release them on the wind to work their magick.

Doing this helped me. In my head I saw each leaf go on to spark a little change, even if all it did was fall to the curb and decompose. Then I began imagining that each was discovered by the one person who needed it most, someone who looked down at the earth and saw the earth looking back. I liked to think that that person was suddenly kissed by magick and began seeing the wonder and beauty in everything, and they began paying it forward. In my head I was changing the world one leaf at a time....

I know that my few friends and fans on my Facebook page like to know that I'm being creative, so I shared what I was doing on social media. Thankfully, it all got the reaction that I was hoping for. Nothing crazy, mind you; just a few folks being charmed by my efforts. The fact that I'd spent time creating these leaflings only to let them blow away was a big part of what charmed them.

It was suggested to me that I add a hashtag or my email address or my website URL on the back of each leaf, so I can hear when and if one was ever found, and also because people will want to know who the artist is. But the idea made me uncomfortable. I didn't want anyone to see my work and wonder about me; I wanted them to see my work and be filled with wonder.

Occasionally someone would comment. "I wish I lived in your neighborhood; it would be so exciting to look down and find one!" A friend wrote that he saw a stand of old milkweed with clusters of empty pods still clinging to their stalks and thought to himself, "Wouldn't it be cool if Delayne drew on one of those?", then went on to say that he'd simply walked away with a smile, telling himself that I'd drawn on them all. When I read that, it was like everything came Full Circle.

My leaflings were making their magick.

But it wasn't long before other comments surfaced: "I hope you're weatherproofing them somehow so they last." (But then they won't decompose; I'm trying to commit a random act of wonder, not poison the earth....) Or, "I live half a world away; I'll never find one!" (How do you know this? They're MAGICK.) Or, "Can I commission you to make one of these for me?" (You're talking about ME taking MONEY now, right?) Or, "Where do you sell these and how much do they cost?" (Yeah, you're talking about money....)

Here's the thing:

I'm just the delivery system. Mine is just the hand that helps the Other Side make contact. Some of us are already 'awake' and familiar with the divine, but others need a miracle, a bit of serendipity, something completely unexpected (like seeing a leaf that sees you back) to make eye contact and kiss them on the heart. To me, it's magick of the highest order.

And I sincerely believe that by working this way -- with fallen leaves and their impermanence -- the message is rather like a glamourbomb (look it up), free to decompose and release its wonder-filled stardust in the air like a perfume. Does that make sense?

That being said, let me repeat that I am just the delivery system. I'm assisting the Fairies, let's say. I'm a minor part of the team. And the thought of taking money in exchange for the small thing I'm doing gives me hives. Money is Donald Trump. It's greed. Yes, yes, I know that I call myself an 'artist' and that I try to sell my work so that I can live to do it all again another day, but don't think it doesn't bug me to have to do this. I've written dozens of blog posts (like this one) about my aversion to being paid for what I do and how bad I am at business so I won't repeat myself. Let's just say that if there was a way to do what I do every day, share my work with others, and still eat and pay my mortgage, I would do it.

But no. Money factors in here, so I deal with it as best I can. I sell my artwork. But this? This is different.

Because others have asked to see my leaflings in person, I've chosen to bring them with me to Fest this season. They're in a display case on my counter, and when people appreciate them I tell them the whole long story. Some get it, some don't. Some lecture me. Some roll their eyes.... I understand. In a place where NOTHING is free, where tickets for a family cost a fortune, where costumed street characters roam the grounds with tip baskets hanging from their belts and seed money tucked in their cleavage, where the smallest of interactions come with the expectation of reward, where food booths have tip jars on their counters next to the napkins, where you can't request a song without waving a five-dollar bill first, what I'm doing is so dang dumb that I can hardly type this without shame.

And smarter heads remind me that it's dumb. Like they did, repeatedly, this past weekend. "This is a business. Take peoples' money." And I really do listen, I swear; I'm just trying to take their advice in a way that is comfortable to me. And I think I've come up with a solution. Maybe.

For the moment, this is where I'm at:

• All the leaflings I create, starting today, will be gently coated with a water-based solution to protect their tiny faces and keep them looking fresh. (This way, should one find its way to you, it will weather the trip, thus allowing you to frame it, gift it, repurpose it, or release it.)
• And if you live 'half a world away,' you can still 'find' one of my leaflings, because I'll mail it to you.
• And you can commission me to make one if you need some magick in your life (or know someone who does). How much do I charge? I don't. (Read on....)
• And if you're at Fest and one of my leaflings 'calls' to you, then you're obviously the one meant to 'find' it. Give it a good home. (Read on....)

I never meant for these to be 'free.' (Magick isn't free; there's always a price.) But in this case I'll let you decide what this is worth to you and what you want to give in exchange. All I ask is that if you wish to pay me in real money, you do so without putting cash or coin in my hands. Give it to me in an envelope and I promise someone else will open and deal with it; I won't know if you think my work is worth 50 bucks or 50 cents or 50 paperclips, so there's no humiliation factor for either of us. Or make a donation on this site (I'll link a Paypal button or something here if/when I can figure out how to do so). Or do something else like rescue an animal, donate some books, read to a kid, fill-in-the-blank. Just move the magick forward, 'k?

Because the Fairies have given me a serious job: to begin their work in this little way and make sure it continues -- without pause -- to heal the Earth and its inhabitants one magick leafling/one kind deed/one act of wonder at a time.

And if you so choose, it can be your job too.

And we can heal the Earth together.

...