Mad Mutter

Epic drive

We're just back from New Mexico, where we went to visit my sister on the spur of the moment. That is, we were debating whether or not to go up until about a day and a half before we actually left, which does not leave much time for packing or arranging for various animals to be cared for. This is not atypical for our approach to travel and many other things, alas. And I'm imagining that our children will be deeply embarrassed by our lack of organization as they get older (F already is, and reminds us over and over about school functions, since he is afraid we will forget to go to them. Which is pretty legitimate), and will turn out to be early for everything, and freakishly tidy, and will find professions in law or accounting or some other profession that requires organization and precision.

Anyway. We were concerned about finances, and really, it was not particularly responsible to head off on a trip right now. But as J pointed out, what will the kids remember? The time we responsibly stayed at home, or the epic trip to New Mexico, where the snow pack in the mountains is the best it has been for twenty years? So we went. And it is epic when we go there, because we drive all night, a 23 hour drive if you only stop once to eat. We leave in the late afternoon or evening and go all night and all through the next day. We hit the Mojave desert about dawn, and spend the next day traveling through the strange, magical landscape that is the Southwest, with its worn, eroded earth and ancient volcanoes and cacti and tumbleweeds and old lava fields with enormous tumbled boulders scattered across the terrain. My sister lives up in the Jemez mountains north of Santa Fe, at about 7500 feet. That whole area of New Mexico is high desert, but where my sister lives there is some available water and conifers and other plant and wildlife. Lots of wildlife, in fact-- on the mesa where they live Fish and Game trucks occasionally come around the neighborhood to warn people when bears or mountain lions have been sighted locally.  My sister woke up in the morning once to find a huge black bear in the cherry tree outside the window. In the tree! Eating cherries! I didn't know they did that. It broke some branches on the way down.

We went skiing and sledding, ate too much, and came back a couple of days ago through Death Valley. It was still dark when we got there. The moon had gone down so it was pitch black, and we stopped the car to look at the night sky. I saw more stars than I ever have in my life, it was like I was falling up into them, a strange sensation. It's a sorry thing that I'm so unfamiliar with the night sky. We "slept" in the car for an hour or so, beside the road, until dawn, and then wandered around that barren landscape. Took a little hike through salt flats and one of the area's deep narrow canyons, with steeply canted, colorful layers of rock. The stone is pink and green and gold, deeply tinted until the sun rises over the mountains when the landscape washes out in the glare of the sun. And flowers! We lucked into the desert bloom, which comes only when there has been an unusual quantity of rain for the year, over an inch and a half or so. As we headed down to the Badwater area, where the elevation is 282 feet below sea level, I was struck by the remarkable resemblance between that landscape and the pictures that have been sent back from Mars where the bare earth is densely scattered with rocks, and there is not a trace of life anywhere.

Coming back took even longer because our little Death Valley diversion added another 300 miles to the trip. This is where insomnia is your friend. We all slept really well, though, when we finally got home.

And now I am back to painting. I'm trying to finish up the elaborately detailed painting I started so long ago so I can focus on  the Great Room project. I finally completed the first panel of that room, and now I only have a million more to do. But it's wonderful to be able to focus my time and energy on these, after so many months of design work. I'm not official, though, according to C. Last night she asked me, "Mom, how do you make an artist hat?" Since this is what artists wear. A beret, and also a smock, and they have one of those little kidney shaped palettes.  She told me, "You should get one of those hats, Mom, so you can really be an artist." I will post photos one of these days. Of the murals! Not me in an artist hat, though maybe I should get one and see if it improves the quality of my work. Maybe artist gear is what I have been missing all these years.

sick people, etc

We are a house full of sick people. Well, two sick people. It's the season. Both F and J are home with some irritating little bug that causes low level symptoms and a low grade fever, just enough for them to stay home, but not enough for them to suffer as one should when one is home sick from school. Although one of my fondest memories from my childhood involved a bout of chicken pox that left me covered with little spots, unable to go to school, and feeling perfectly fine. No suffering there, except presumably my mom's.

I'm finally doing the actual painting on the giant great room job, finally, which is a relief. I've been stuck with maquettes for the last year and it's nice to move on to full scale work. Plus I'm painting a somewhat fanciful tiger right now, and how often do you get to do that? I'm a little disheartened by how much there is left to do, seeing as how I've barely been able to work on the project up to now; what has been accomplished so far (which is actually quite a lot) has been done by subcontractors. When I get a little further I will photograph the work and also the maquette I'm working from.

And I also finished The Wide Sargasso sea, by Jean Rhys, which has languished on my bookshelf for at least ten years. This was prompted by yet another BBC version of Jane Eyre. I was struck by the direct, concise quality of her writing. Interesting that the author came from the islands herself, and was able to use that unique cultural perspective. And I liked that Antoinette (inexplicably called Bertha by Mr Rochester, the cad-- trying to drive her crazy maybe?) was such a sympathetic, though troubled and fragile, character. It adds a little dollop of justice to Mr. Rochester's rather grisly fate ( I was always creeped out by Jane getting together with him after his accident, effectively becoming his nurse maid).

dishes and other gripes

F had his belated birthday party yesterday, ending the official holiday season at the Mad Mutter household. Finally. At last. With a tired, somewhat limp hallelujah. J was gone from Wednesday night until Sunday night at the annual trade show he goes to for the music industry (NAMM), and Wednesday was F's birthday. Hence the late celebration and the inadequately disguised lack of enthusiasm on the part of his mother. Because being a single mom is remarkably difficult for me, especially when the dishwasher stops working  and the fixer guy can't come until Wednesday.

I used to wash dishes all the time. As we had kids, the amount of time spent doing it slowly crept up until I swear it consumed about 30% of my day, and I got very very cranky about the whole affair. So then we got the dishwasher, and it was like the sun breaking out of the clouds and the swelling song of angels, and now I am utterly spoiled and feel personally affronted, even betrayed, when the thing breaks down. This is the first time, mind you-- it has been a good and faithful servant for many years. But I don't even care, I'm still really angry with it.

Anyway. The good thing about the NAMM convention is first that J can say, 'I'm going to NAMM, man.' Well. He doesn't actually say that but I think it. He doesn't find the name as amusing as I do. But the convention is in Anaheim, home of the freakish and dreaded Disneyland. He traditionally brings home strange cultural artifacts from there, like a mickey mouse/ dildo shaped device with twirling, light up LED ears for M. And elbow length white princess gloves for C (which she conscientiously removed to eat her pepperoni pizza last night, though I think that was the only time). Last year he brought us two bizarro shot glasses with sculpted glass Tinkerbells protruding from the sides. I pray that we never, ever have to go there as a family. Please God.

The convention itself attracts many famous and wannabe famous folks in the music industry, and I get to hear all about them. And also J asked me this time if I wanted him to put the lap dance on the debit or credit card. I'm thinking maybe he should earn the money washing dishes. 

The best people watching story I got this time was a fellow he spotted hanging around their booth who was reportedly about 6'6" (I don't know what that is in meters, but it's a lot, trust me) tall, and was sporting a full length red leather coat, long black hair, and white contact lenses. Yeesh. White contact lenses! When he stalked off at some point, J said, 'he's probably going off to worship Satan', and another guy said, 'Naaah. He's probably just going off to pee.' And then Stevie Wonder was supposed to be headed their way, but we got off the phone before I found out if he actually showed up. Oh, and also he spotted Alice Cooper, or maybe an Alice Cooper impersonator-- who can tell with all the makeup?

In the end, I'm just deeply grateful J is home. He's been gone three times in the last three months, for four or five days each time, not that I'm counting. Because I am a good and supportive wife, and never resentful of the extra work it requires of me. Never. And also because I'm storing up days to desert J and the children and head off to Italy for a couple of weeks for a fresco workshop near Venice. In a restored monastery.  Take that, Disneyland! His trip in December was to Berlin for a few days, which is a bit harder to top, but I think I will make it. And I vow I will not feel even the teensiest bit guilty.

Computer Monitor

I fixed my computer monitor this morning. I'm feeling very pleased with myself for it, more pleased than the actual task really warrants. The saga of the Limp Computer Monitor (yes, you read that right) has been going on for several months. I have a very groovy, nicely designed Samsung monitor with a hinged base that allows you to adjust the height and angle of the monitor quite easily. You can (could) make it as high or as low as you want, and even turn the whole rectangular screen to a vertical orientation. I'm not sure why you'd want to--maybe some kind of graphics application? Anyway, this baby could do it. Except over time, a fatal flaw was revealed to me. The hinge began to slowly wilt. It lost its flexibility. You could still turn the screen, but it didn't matter because you couldn't get the hinge stretched out enough to allow it. Finally my lovely screen was sadly at rest, held up only by the surface of my little computer desk. I could raise it an inch or so, and then it would immediately settle back into its former position.So I was looking down down down all the time.

Fortunately, Samsung has a generous warranty of three years from the time of purchase, so I called up, and they were very friendly and helpful, and they said they would send a replacement base right away.  I was amazed at how easy it was. 7-10 business days!  Yay!

This was in October.

At the beginning of December, feeling a little disgruntled, I called again. I got another friendly and helpful soul, who was apologetic and understanding about the confusion. Sorry! That other customer service person must have fouled up! Geez! Let me fix that right up! We'll send the part within 7-10 business days!

Two days ago, January 16th, I called again. Reached a third helpful person who finally seemed to figure things out. Seems the part is on some kind of permanent back order; he will send me an entire monitor, to arrive at UPS, at which time I will bring in my old monitor, and switch it out with the new (reconditioned) one. Or I can take the thing apart right there at UPS and just take the hinged base. I got a number and everything.

Yesterday, I went outside to find two large boxes on my porch. And yes, you guessed right. Both of the hinged bases that I had previously requested arrived on the very same day, and I'm expecting an entire monitor in another few days. Dammit. Now I have to figure out whether to keep the extra base (can I? Will they send the Samsung SWAT team to retrieve it if I don't?) in case this new one also wilts. And what of the other monitor, which now I don't need? Do I have to call them again, and navigate their ridiculous phone tree, and go to UPS (which is in another town) to sort things out?

I'll think about that tomorrow. Anyway. When I opened one of the boxes, there was the base, all clean and modern looking except for the part that attaches to the monitor, which looked like one of the gut parts of the original Terminator. Like screws and lots of little bundled up wires and bare metal. Intimidating, is what I'm trying to say. And really, I don't even know why, because I actually built my computer before this one, even though I didn't have the first idea how, and now can't even imagine why I would attempt such a thing. I think it had to do with trying to get it cheap. And the assembled computer even worked, though never as well as it should have because it turns out all those little bits and parts need to actually know each other-- like they've already been introduced, and are pretty good buds. Because any bit that is a stranger, or a little hostile, can slow down and even foul up the whole kit and caboodle. And apparently I don't understand the subtleties of these bits and pieces' social life.

So I'm going on and on about all this, but the bottom line is that I managed to figure out how to pop the back off and undo the old base and attach the new one and plug in all the appropriate little wires to the circuit board and then close the whole thing up. And lo, it all works! Actually, a monkey could do it. Nevertheless, I'm very pleased with myself. And also I have managed to write an entire post about a subject that only I could possibly be interested in. If you have managed to get down this far, congratulations, and thank you for your time (that you will never ever get back. Please don't be bitter).

Nutcracker

My equilibrium and Christmasy feeling have been at least partially restored by a trip we made down to the city yesterday. We saw the SF Ballet production of The Nutcracker with C, who is five, her bestest friend/nemesis L who is 4 (mostly nemesis on this particular day, alas), our nine year old son, husband J, and L's parents.

A new production, and fun fun fun. We were in the balcony circle, which has been known to cause nose bleeds. We were in the front row, along the rail, where there were a few anxious moments as the girls l-e-a-n-e-d way out to catch the action, and also to look far far below us and contemplate dropping their programs on the unsuspecting heads of the patrons in the next tier down. We didn't let them, by the way.   

I knew I was going to enjoy the show the moment the aptly named Nutcracker came leaping onto the stage and I caught sight of his thighs, all three of them. Oops. Did  say that? I do love me those tight manly tights though, worn for once by men who really should be wearing them.

I loved watching the costumes, which were unusually creative and beautiful. The Nutcracker can be a bit staid and it was not this time. And did I mention the men in tights? Who were leaping and cavorting in the most manly ways possible? Oh, and there were ballerinas too, by the way. But you know, they truly don't get the coolest dances. They have to be all about being graceful and floaty, and the artform is so stylized they're pretty much restricted to doing impossible vertical splits and waving their rubbery fluttery arms and tipping around at unlikely angles. And being toted about by their burly counterparts with the little pants. What do you call the men, by the way? Ballerinos? They get all the best parts, more athletic, and lots of impressive leaping and twirling around fast with one leg straight out, without ever falling over even once. Although the lead ballerina did actually fall kersplat right on her ass at the very culmination of an important dance. I thought it was on purpose at first, but then she got right up with that look that cats have when they do something embarrassing like falling off a piece of furniture. I bet PBS didn't use that take (this is why they're filming several performances, I suppose). Poor thing.

The girls did great, although C somewhat better than her friend( what a difference a year makes). I was ungraciously chortling inside as L's poor mother tried to keep her daughter contained, at first with the sweet cajoling we parents use in public settings, and by the end of the performance hissing "sit! down!" through grimly gritted teeth. Oh thank god it wasn't me for once.

There was lots of walking and public transportation and herding children who are not at all adapted to city life and see nothing wrong with playing in the anonymous puddles in the corners of bus stop shelters, or excitedly picking up skanky besmirched pigeon feathers, or wandering heedlessly toward crosswalks which are red, with cars and buses streaming past. And I was stupidly wearing heels, which violently disagreed with my (still) broken toe. I had to wear them! I have no shoes that I can wear with anything fancier than my orange work jumpsuit that do not have heels! But oh, the pain and regret, I can't even tell you.

And then we carpooled home, where our friends dropped off J to pick up our car, which had been worked on in a town a half an hour away. So this was very convenient. We were the tiniest bit late, but they let us pick up the car anyway. This seemed really serendipitous until I got home and found a message on the phone from J in a total state, saying they had locked him in the parking lot. Half. an hour. away. Me? Utter disbelief.

Then, a second phone call saying he had managed to escape by some fancy driving over a curb and apparently lots of agapanthus. Will they ever let us come back? Do we actually want to? This remains to be seen.

So all in all, a good day.

Christmas! Gahhh!

I'm off single mom duty now. J was in Berlin (!) for five days last week, and I realized once again how glad I am to have a partner in this kid raising business. I know many people do a beautiful job of it on their own, but frankly, I don't know how. I guess necessity is the mother of invention (did I get that right?).

But he's back now, and I can focus more clearly on the sense of panic and life spun out of control that is my lot in the weeks before Christmas. Too much to do! Too much work! Too many projects! Actual life to lead while trying to accomplish all these things! Essentially I think my problem is
a. I ALWAYS manage to take on more than I can actually do, and
b. Christmas, for me, is an Event, and events require planning, and planning is, kindly put, not a strong suit of mine.
c. Oh, and did I mention that I'm a perfectionist? And that by god I will make Christmas a magical experience for the kids? Or else?

If you think it sounds like I am a delight to live with right now, especially for a spouse who has a decidedly different take on the holiday, then you are right. Back when I was not the producer, director and stage manager for the holiday experience I could never understand why so many people commit suicide at this time of year. Now I do. Which is a bit sad, really.

Today should be a good day, though. I will be forcibly removed from all my concerns, as we have tickets to the Nutcracker in San Francisco. C's birthday was last weekend, and she's all about ballerinas these days. We asked the boys if they wanted to go too; M accepted (he's our theatre guy) and F declined. So four of us will be heading down to the city for the day, along with our good friends from up the hill who also have a little girl (C's soulmate, except when she's not--it's a very siblinglike relationship).

There are about 20 bazillion productions of the Nutcracker around, but we wanted an extravaganza. I took F down there when he was four, and they were actually making snow at the entrance, so that it sifted down onto you as you walked in. How can it get better than that? Apparently they're filming it for PBS this year, so we CANNOT BE LATE, or they won't let us in. Yikes

And on a completely different note, here's another one of C's little word confusions that will inevitably become extinct: Girl cheese sandwich. I love this. For grilled cheese, of course.

birthday and etc

Today is C's birthday. She is 5 YEARS OLD. How this came about, I do not know. To be honest, I am profoundly grateful that my children are getting as old as they are. Small children are adorable and lovely, and very very demanding. I have discovered a not so great truth about myself which is that I am rather self involved, and by no means a natural caregiver. So the only thing that makes me a little bummed about this birthday is the fact that I too am five years older.

And also that as C matures we're gradually losing some of her hilarious verbal errors. Like calling nostrils snorkels. And hard tack, heart attack (the boys like to make it, as it consists solely of flour, water  and salt and is perversely satisfying to gnaw on). And toast-on-bread for ordinary toast. I think it sounds much more elegant that way, actually. Like Stratford-upon-Avon. Or Aix-en-Provence.

We got her a fish for her birthday, by the way, a Betta, as she wanted a pet, and we figured this was the lowest maintenance animal around, and probably the hardest to kill. As evidenced by the blue Betta owned by her 9 year old brother, which has happily survived for more than a year, and has been foully mistreated for most of that time. If he can keep one of these things alive, anyone can (okay, in case you think we're monsters, we do monitor the situation--just a mite loosely).

In the evening, after C's very pink and purple party, J and I went for a much deserved evening out. We saw (heard?) Verdi's Requiem at the Symphony, because J had seen the flyer and figured the piece was pretty much the equivalent of 19th century heavy metal. As it turns out, he was kind of right. But that aside, it was -- just an unforgettable, powerful experience. J had  reserved our tickets on the spur of the moment just a couple of nights before the performance. He asked for the best seats available, as the show was largely sold out. So we arrived and wandered around looking for our seats, and it seems we were in favor with the gods, or maybe they felt sorry for us, considering the party we had put on earlier. Because it turns out our seats were two rows back from the stage and absolute dead center. We were literally ten feet away from the conductor (Bruno Ferrandis) and four soloists, who were in turn surrounded by the orchestra, and finally a chorus 150 voices strong. The soloists were Theresa Santiago, Susan Platts, Richard Clement, and Dean Elzinga-- the names don't mean anything to me, but I figure I should mention them.

I've never had seats like that. You could see the effort, the concentration of the performers. You could hear them breathe. I could see a little place under the conductor's tails where his shirt had come untucked. It was all so very human, and yet the sound they made, all together like that. All those people, every last one trained and talented and committed, working together to make this thing that was so more than the sum of them. I could really see that, and feel it, because it was all right there. The conductor was tall and thin and had enormous hands. He was wildly expressive, actually leaping up in the air sometimes as he conducted, completely immersed in what he was doing. As J said "That is one intense m--f--". The mezzo soprano looked nervous until her parts were done, and then she relaxed into the most beatific smile. The soprano was distant until her solo at the end and then she came alive with a soaring voice that brought your heart up into your throat. The tenor seemed a little bored and distracted--I liked him the least, but then, I don't generally like tenors. And the bass looked a little like one of the monks from The Name of the Rose, but he had a beautiful, resonant voice.

Anyway. J and I talked on the way home about that kind of experience, where your body can barely contain the way you feel, like something is rising up, reaching out, I don't know, exaltation? I get it at plays sometimes, too. And something akin to it while painting (when things are going well), but it's not exactly the same thing, because I think there really is something about a whole group of people, and how in the right circumstances, when they are working together, everyone is greater than they ever could be on their own. We were talking about how everyone should be able to feel that way more often.

work, work, work

I have pictures! Here are a couple showing the strange and laborious process I'm going through in this novel (and terrifically fun) project for my sister. By the way, I ran into a painter who says he always paints this way. Who knew?!?

This is the first level, all sepia. You can see a little of the old dutch paintings I'm working with.

And here is the "dead layer", which is basically taking everything to black and white. It's used to establish value and takes a #$%^&* long time.

And finally, for your viewing pleasure, an image of my karate toe (see earlier entry). Warning: Please avert your eyes if you're grossed out by seeing other people's aged, yellowing toenails on line.

And in other news, we're all Christmasy around the old homestead as of Sunday, when we got a beautiful tree and decorated it with much less anxiety than last year. Only one ornament dropped, and we don't even have to have an unbreakable zone along the bottom half of the tree. I admit it, I am deeply grateful to have a nearly 5 year old as my youngest.

And as a random addendum, I'm reading The Lay of the Land, by Richard Ford. I adored The Sportswriter, and I will have to reread Independence Day, as I read it long ago (don't remember much), before I had found the first of the trilogy. Good books. And you know, I have more google searches for the last paragraph in The Road (Cormac McCarthy) than any other. Isn't it interesting that that one tiny bit made such an impact on people?

graduation

Here's a sentence I never expected to say: we spent the entire day involved in some sort of karate event or another. It was graduation day (I'm a purple belt, so Is F, and M is a green belt), and a ninth dan blackbelt, Sensei Yaguchi, was here from Colorado to do the judging.

We did a workshop with him in the morning. He's 75, looks 60, and has very heavily accented English, so although he had many very useful things to say, I missed a lot of them. And looked even stupider than I actually am, because I couldn't quite get his instruction on some of the movements, and I would have to flail around in as anonymous a way as I could manage while trying to glean what I was supposed to be doing from other students.

After the class I was a teeny bit demoralized, and even more so when my toe started to throb, the one beside my pinkie on the left foot. I think I may have broken it, as it started to swell immediately and has since turned a ripe plummy black. I have no idea when or how I did it. It's ridiculous that something as small and insignificant as a toe can hurt so much. And these guys are not at all sympathetic about pain. They think it's good for you. So limping, wincing and squeaking "owie!" while performing, especially without any obvious bleeding wounds or compound fractures, are looked down upon.This was a couple of hours before graduation, where I would have to get up in front of a whole bunch of strangers, and try not to look stupid. I loaded up on ibuprofen at lunch and it worked surprisingly well. I did fine, and the boys were great. They learn everything faster than I do. And I think F has a real gift for karate.

You don't get really great, though, until up at the black belt level, where the katas (ritualized series of movements) stop looking goofy and start looking scary. J is not super helpful about the katas. He can't not laugh at them. He leaned over, giggling, and whispered to me in the middle of the graduation today when the brown belts were performing,"That's the silliest thing I've ever seen." Thanks for the support, hon!

We're back home now, where I've hung the first Christmas lights, blue ones, around the big doors in the front room. Tomorrow: the Christmas tree. It has begun.

something completely different

I'm working on a completely different kind of painting right now. My sister is opening a gourmet food...something or other...I don't know how exactly to describe it. Subscription dinners, with available takeout? Anyway, she wants a painting to be hung in the entry area, and I am painting it for her. It's a still life of food and flowers, something like the bazillions of old Dutch still lives that were done in--what?--the 17th century? These usually included a dead strangled rabbit or limp grouse, but I have tidied my painting up a bit, and stuck to purely vegetarian subject matter.

I thought I would do a little research, for fun, and came upon this crazy Eastern European painter's website who makes many interesting suggestions, among them:

"1. Stop looking at modern art and stop loving it. Modern bright colors and hue contrasts destroy the subtle vision of the painter who risks to study classical painting in our time.

2. Many painters get an energy charge from music. Stop listening to any modern music and begin listening only to classical music. Try to begin loving it."

Aside from the slightly unhinged quality (see above), the guy knows his stuff when it comes to old masters techniques. He has little demo paintings that he has taken from start to finish, and the process is fascinating. It seems I am the last to know-- when I mentioned the technique wonderingly to artist friends, they looked askance at me and did not say "well, yeah, duh", though this was clearly expressed in their faces.

In case any of you don't know, here is the sequence:
Tone your canvas with a light olive brown, in keeping with the lightest areas of the planned composition.
Draw it in, first with pencil, then with India Ink (Ha! How the #$%^&* are you supposed to use India Ink on canvas? I am clearly not meant to be an old master)
Use a burnt umber glaze to lay in all the values in the entire piece-- basically paint the thing in sepia tone.
Go over it again with a big brush for good measure to be your values are in the proper relationship
Then paint the entire damn thing over again in black and white, basically, "moontones", using the underpainting to establish the values on top.
Then, and only then do you begin adding color to the piece, which you lay over the silvery underpainting, and continue to match your values.

It seems nuts to me. But what's even more nuts is that I determined to do the piece this way, and am enjoying myself enormously. Not that I will probably ever do it again, as it is inexpressibly anal and takes forever. But fun! And so different than the endless maquettes that I am still, yes still, working on. I will post photos sometime.