What drawing means to me (03-02-11)

As I've slowly been organizing my new studio, I finally got to the boxes that had been packed up since September 2009, when we sold our house in SE Portland. Obviously, life went on without these things, and it was manageable. Yet, I've always disliked the thought that if you haven't worn an item of clothing for a year, you need to discard it. It's not that I am a collector, but I need the familiarity of objects I like to feel grounded.

So, I embarked on my box opening project with some anxiety. What if everything inside was now meaningless? What if the images, the art supplies, the small objects just turned out to be junk? More pointedly, if the things I once liked had become irrelevant, would I in turn feel irrelevant?

Opening box after box of art supplies, paints, markers, pencils, I found some treasures: the box of watercolors my grand-father sent me when I was 23, the metal tubes twisted and mangled, the paints hardened to chunks, and another box my mother sent me around the same time, still pristine, still unused, and still evoking the same feelings of wonder when I carefully open it.

I found my journals, the oldest one from when I was about 17 years old, full of goody-girly nonsense, and its existence brings out feelings of regrets over the solemn sacrificial burning at age 16, of two previous journals whose every page was filled with rage and anger, expressed in a rainbow of red, blue, or green fountain pen ink.

I found my sketchbooks, all of them, and placed them pell-mell on a bookcase shelf, and this is the first time I can see all of them side by side, and the real space they take. The first sketchbook I bought in 1997 was small and black, filled with timid and hesitant drawings of people, followed by an unimaginative series of more identical black sketchbooks.

My sketchbooks of choice now are my reliable hand-bound sketchbooks my dad buys in Budapest and sends in an occasional package, along with dark chocolate, sweet licorice or violet candy, and Speculoos cookies or spread from Belgium. (A side note here about the cover patterns: my dad clearly favors historical Hungarian motifs, while I prefer colorful images, like flowers or objects, but I can't complain since these are the best sketchbooks ever.)

My present sketchbook

I've been more impatient with drawing lately, ready to move on to another page, taking less time to work on individual pages. I also use less color, while I would actually prefer more color in my books. But in the case of fashion sketches, I find that a few lines say it all, the place has been visited, it's time to do something else, like another sketch...so turning the page is getting easier.

Buried Treasure Project: Why I draw (Repost from 09-25-08)

[I am reposting this post as part of Seth's Buried Treasure project on his blog The Altered Page.]

[The best way I can think of revisiting the past is to look through my old sketchbooks, so this image came immediately to mind.]

My sketchbooks are a source of comfort and pleasure. Whenever I feel bored or unsure about a situation, or when I plain don't feel like being sociable, I know that, in my purse, a world of escape awaits. They are my memory of events I enjoyed, my record of places visited, my outlet for what can't always quite be said in words.

My present sketchbook (01-18-09)

This is a photo of the sketchbook I am using right now.
My dad got several of these wonderful books in Hungary. I love the compact format, the many pages, the attention to details, the leather binding, the old-fashioned patterns...
Unfortunately, the manufacturer has discontinued this particular size of books. I still have a few blank ones stashed away, and when they'll be completed, I will have to reluctantly move on to something else altogether.

Paris: I met a Fairy Godmother (11-18-08)

I know it sounds strange, but I met a Fairy Godmother.

Sitting on a bench in the Akira Kurosawa exhibit in the Petit Palais (art museum), I was lost in my thoughts. I hadn't been feeling well and was debating what to do once I left the museum.

I looked up when I heard a woman standing nearby sigh out loud, as if to catch my attention. She then began to fan herself with a program, exclaiming that she was exhausted and sat down on my bench. She started talking to me, as if we had been visiting the museum together all along. I immediately felt like I knew this woman.

She was small vivacious, talkative, funny. We talked about the Kurosawa exhibit, his movies, Art, museums, and things to do in Paris, Life, what it is all about. She told me that she lives in the countryside and comes up to Paris once a year to visit museums and go to the theater. She asked me about myself, how I was. She told me I was very brave and courageous.

As we were talking, I kept asking myself how it was possible that I felt like I knew her... She was in her mid-sixties, perhaps older; her hair was dark brown and cut in an impish pageboy style. Would she have gotten along with my mom, had she ever met her? Was it my mom she was reminding me of? True, my mom had the same self-assured manner and friendly way with people… I asked her name, “Oh, it’s a stupid name, Elizabeth.” I then asked her, should we perhaps exchange addresses? She brushed my question off. "Whatever for? There is no need for that!" And she was right.

We went together to visit some of the rooms in the museum, showed each other artwork we had admired on our own. She shared some Japanese art she had liked and I showed her a floor-to-ceiling painting of “The Good Samaritan” that looked so real, I had at first thought it was a color photograph. Still talking, we walked out of the museum together and went to the nearest Metro station. She decided to accompany me to the St Michel stop.

We got off the train. I wanted to thank her in for her kindness. I offered to draw a portrait of her and give it to her, but she laughed and refused; she said she looked terrible in portraits. She then hugged me, said "Au revoir, ma grande," kissed me on the cheek, waved goodbye as she walked away, down a flight of stairs to her train, and disappeared among the crowd. She was gone.
I suddenly felt very lonely.

Apologies, this blog has been quiet lately...

...due to the author's health problems.

I hope to snap out of it soon and to post something.

Back from Paris! (12-01-08)

Well, Paris was Paris.
The women were beautiful and stylish, the weather was nice, the food was great...

Off to Europe! (11-14-08)

I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow, then off to Belgium next Saturday and will be back on November 26 (Julia's birthday).

Election Night (11-04-08)

We were invited to the Crawfords' on Tuesday, for an "Election Night Party."
It was nice to see that there was an apparent consensus across the country, and it was as if one could feel people around the globe sigh with relief.
I was also nice to hear a great speaker for a change. Someone who spoke well, who said meaningful, complete sentences, with no snickering. Soon, the "nukular," the "He's a good man," the "Mission Accomplished," the "I am the Decider"...will become just fleeting elements of a nightmare from which people yearn to wake up.
Of course, I am not an idealist to the point of thinking that this election is going to be the dawn to a new course for the country, but, maybe, it'll bring enough small changes to make a difference for the better. We need to move on, to turn the page. Let's change our modus operandi and fix things rather than dismantle and destroy.

A Weight Off My Shoulders

I finally applied for graduation and signed up for the two 1-credit Education classes to get my diploma. It's funny, but when I initially signed up for distance education courses, I thought it'd be no big deal, quickly over and done with. I had plenty of time, -one year,- to work on them, why rush into it? The year came and went, and I did nothing. True, it wasn't all due to slacking: I was busy; I was under tremendous stress over other issues, etc. So, in January last year, after determining that I didn't even want to bother again with the one class out of three distance education courses I had vaguely look at, I dutifully signed up again (and paid tuition) for the two remaining courses... And now, even though the one-year completion time hasn't elapsed yet, I feel strangely free after deciding that I will not finish this round of courses either... The lesson in all this? Don't choose subjects you have no motivation to investigate, and stay away from distance education courses.
And what after the diploma? Oh, the inner satisfaction... and more.

The Horrible Massage (ca. 02-04)

A few years ago, I decided to treat myself to a massage on my birthday. Anticipating that I may be going through one of those depressive moods that seem to strike around the date, I wanted to do something preventive that would soothe me into my next age. So I called one of the local Massage schools. The student assigned to me, they assured me, would be a senior soon to graduate. I gathered up my courage (I hadn't done this before) and made an appointment. This was going to be a special birthday.
By the time I got to the Massage school for my appointment in the late afternoon of my birthday, I felt tense and harried. I was wearing black. The day hadn't gone so well and a massage was just what I needed. I felt secretly pleased with myself for anticipating my needs.
I went in the school building and was directed to the upstairs waiting room where my student was waiting for me. A tall, lumbering man holding a towel stood at the top of the stairs. I looked around and realized that this had to be my student. Here I was expecting a perhaps bookish, but nevertheless efficient young woman, and I got a lumberjack! My heart sank. He led me to a large gym in which other students were busy providing massages to people lying down on their backs or stomachs on foam mats directly on the wooden floor. I was increasingly apprehensive.
The big guy, -a giant, really, took me to a corner of the room. I set my things down on the floor, took my shoes off and eased myself down on the mat. The student gave me a small hand towel to place on my chest over my sweater. I closed my eyes and ordered myself to relax. The massage was nondescript and clumsy. I was surprised that a senior student could be that ineffective. I was resigned to get through the session and be done with it.
But as time went on, I felt myself pulled out of my self-induced semi-meditative state by some grunts and panting sounds that became increasingly loud. I opened on eye, to see what was going on. The student was now working on my legs through my clothes. He looked uncomfortable, his bovine face looked grey and pasty, and large beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. I was alarmed. The man may have a heart condition, I suddenly thought. What would I do if he fell on top of me, like a great tree falls in a primeval forest? He kept on kneading my legs, working his way upward in an erratic manner. Through my half open eyes, I could see him strain to keep on task. What a stupid way to die, I told myself, crushed to death, and on my birthday of all days possible! I was frozen by fear, with visions of myself squashed, flattened like a bug on the floor, blood pooling under me.
I kept hoping that, perhaps, he would move aside, and give himself s few minutes to recover. Not so. He was now directly over my head, massaging my shoulders, then my neck. I quickly opened an eye again. There he was, haggard, breathing like a bull charging through a field, sweating away, right over my face. I closed my eye shut quickly. I felt a drop of sweat splash on my face, right under my right eye. Paralyzed with horror, all I could think was "Body fluid!" I could feel every hair on my body stand straight. What if it had fallen in my eye! I tried to calm myself down; there was no need to panic; there was no reason to overreact. I carefully wiped the wetness off my fingers. I was busy thinking up an excuse to stop the ordeal, when I felt the towel being picked off my chest. What was he doing this time? I opened both eyes at once, to see him rolling the towel in a ball, wiping his forehead with it, and, once done, placing the wet towel back over my chest.
To this day, I still wonder why on earth, I didn't simply put an end to the séance the instant I saw that things were off, but too often, my reaction to something weird going has been one of surprise, disbelief, then magical thinking: if I close my eyes, it'll disappear or pass eventually. Of course, nothing ever does.
In any case, the drawing was done a few minutes after leaving the school with encouraging words to the inept clod who inadvertently made this birthday one I'll always remember.

My New Year's resolution...a few months late (10-02-08)

I decided to get serious about my writing, but there is a major obstacle in my way. I want to finish my Master's degree.
The last year was spent wasting my time and mulling over the two online classes I had signed up for and left undone on my computer, but I learned something through the process: I don't do well at all with self-managed distance education courses, an expensive lesson to learn. So today, after one year of inactivity, finally determined to get my diploma, I went to the Graduate office at Portland State University and turned in my graduation application. The plan is as follows: to sign up for the two credits I need and to get whatever class I choose over and done with. And no matter how tempting they may seem, to stay away from online courses from now on.

No Objectivity Necessary or Required (09-30-08)

I was going through some of my old sketchbooks, and revisited some old situations and feelings, as I had interpreted them at the time. My sketchbooks are so precious to me that, -and this is something I have thought about many, many times, if my house were on fire, they are what I would want to pull out (assuming everyone is safe, etc.), along with my thumb drives, since they hold my written journal texts.
When I write, it tends to be in the "I-Hate-My-Life" style, while the sketchbooks hold so many moments of sheer wonder, happiness and pleasure (such as the drawing of my husband's hand with a paper heart next to it, a sketch of someone's toddler asleep on a plane, or an architectural detail on a building...), that words could not convey appropriately. Of course, I could write, "The child was asleep now, her soft, gentle face was peaceful..." and how BORING that would be. There is nothing like drawing it.
I decided to post some old entries from my sketchbooks. There is no specific order or reason that will dictate my postings, just whatever catches my attention and makes me smile at the memory.
I may at some point also post my pages on politics, -some are funny, while most express how helpless I feel in a world that is out of control.
[. . .]
I am not looking for advice; I am not looking for solace. I think that inner peace is something that is gained from life experience, and obviously, I still have a lot to learn.

Why I draw (09-25-08)

My sketchbooks are a source of comfort and pleasure. Whenever I feel bored or unsure about a situation, or when I plain don't feel like being sociable, I know that, in my purse, a world of escape awaits. They are my memory of events I enjoyed, my record of places visited, my outlet for what can't always quite be said in words.

Tree cutters at work (09-16-08)

G. and I went for a walk tonight and, on our way, we walked down two blocks over eastward and were stupefied to see that the very tall and beautiful cedar tree on the edge of the second house from the corner was in the process of being cut down.
Now, this is a house that had been for sale for close to $700,000 in the past year, by far the nicest house in the neighborhood and, of course, part of what made the property attractive was the tree on the left side of the property.
There was a contractor's van on the street and scaffolding in front of the house. In my opinion, whomever has the money to buy such an expensive house, then remodel and cut trees down that were perfectly fine... (I won't finish my sentence).
Of course, the excuse will be invoked that 1) the tree was "sick," 2) it could be "dangerous" (so could Mt Hood blowing up), 3) it was "old" (see excuse #2), 4) it was "messy" (it shed needles/pinecones/horse chestnuts/leaves, or whatever else).
It makes one cynical.

Procrastinating...again (08-27-08)

Well, today, we had another one of those speed-clean-the-house moments, because the house had to be shown. It's pretty difficult to keep everything clean all the time. What is even more annoying is to hear lame "feedback" comments and complaints, such as "But there's no yard..." (said in an annoying nasal voice). Yes, there IS a yard: right in front of the house and on the side of it. No, it's not a private yard where you can romp around in the nude, but it IS larger than the standard city lot.

Consequently, I still haven't posted any drawings.

First impressions (08-09-08)

All right. It's time to get this stuff posted and stop berating myself for not doing anything creative. In fact, I got more creativity than I know what to do with, but what I don't have is MOTIVATION. So, in an effort to remedy the problem,

HELLO WORLD,

MAXINE HAS HEREBY STARTED HER SUPRA-EXCITING BLOG IN WHICH SHE WILL TELL IT ALL TO ALL, AND LIFE IN THE BLOGOSPHERE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME, etc.

(PS: the above text was not yelling; it was just an official announcement)