Menagerie News

It's not an animal but it's still a part of my gold leaf menagerie. It called out to me at the thrift store the same way the pig did. What else could I do? Home came the wooden bowling pin and out came the gold leaf.

Part of the Gold Leaf Menagerie

7-1/2 inches tall

2009

More Gold Leaf Menagerie

Most of the Gold Leaf Menagerie is made up of thrift store finds. But this little wooden coyote (3 inches tall) was my mother's. A strange thing, I suppose, by which to remember my mother. It's gold now, still wears its original kerchief, does remind me of my mother, and I am happy.

The Gold Leaf Menagerie

I'm standing, flipping through the rack of new arrivals that's been left, haphazardly, in the middle of the main aisle at my local Salvation Army.

The rack and I completely block the way. An older woman in ill-fitting 80's style clothing in gaudy colors, stops next to me. Her oversized bag gets lost in the clothing rack as she squeezes into the aisle. Long, stringy, graying hair, a child's barrette pulling her bangs back over her forehead, she smiles a loose grin with a missing incisor, and warmly admits that she recognizes me. Yes, I've seen her around too.

"Come on over and have a sit with us." She motions with her head towards the chairs and couches for sale, placed around a worn-out coffee table with a $20 price tag. "You're a regular; you belong over here chatting with us. We have nice talks."

Yes, I visit this Salvation Army store a couple days a week. Yes, I'm a regular, but I'm not a chatting regular.

I check today's stash:
- a lovely, tastefully beaded black Alex Coleman vest. Maybe I'll wear it at Christmas.
- a long and lean, foot-long, wooden pig. It feels warm and seems to oink a golden oink at me. "Take me home, gold leaf me, I'm perfect," it says.
- a small and grimy child's school slate that might be old enough to be worth something, but I plan on gold leafing the border and chalking in something clever on the slate.
- a tiny wicker bird cage, about 3 inches tall, without a price tag.

I thank the lady for her invitation and quickly flip through the rest of the rack before moving on to the checkout counter. I chuckle over the thought of hanging out at the furniture section while the guy behind me in line picks his nose, and the young man in the red Salvation Army vest loudly sings along with Crocodile Rock playing on the stereo marked $15.00.

My beautiful vest and wooden pig are recorded in the cash register, treated as items equally worth taking home on an early Thursday afternoon. I love how a 40-year-old hand-beaded vest and a "Buy One/Get One Free on Brick-a-Brack" item receive the exact same nonchalant reaction from the counter lady. She picks up the tiny bird cage (also destined for gold). The rule is "No tag - No sale." She looks up, recognizes me, and pushes the cage towards me across the glass-topped jewelry-filled countertop. Conspiratorially, and with a smile and a sweet wrinkle of her nose, she says, "You just take that, Sweetie."

Glancing over at the furniture section I feel strangely honored by the earlier invitation. Of course there's no question that I want to buy these things. It's fine. I'm a regular.

Softly singing along to Crocodile Rock, I check my outfit, my bag. Pointing into the glass case I spy a little costume jewelry piece and say, "Can you show me that barrette?"

(More from the Gold Leaf Menagerie coming soon.)

Why I Make Art

Back then, in those preteen years of mine, my fingers used to wiggle. Sometimes my arms moved around simultaneous to the finger wiggle. Draw anything and the wiggle would stop: A chair in the restaurant, a pant leg (with or without shoe), a couch in a living room, or weeds growing outside the window. Whatever it was, people liked it. They told me I had a secret; that I possessed the miracle of art making that they could appreciate but not understand. I could pretend I was self-conscious, making a fuss about not wanting to show my sketches. That way I could reinforce their belief that I held a secret. And if I did finally allow the sketchbook to be opened by them, they were suitably awe struck and did not try to pry the miraculous secret from me.

And I, to play my part, was suitably silent and humble.

When my mother was dying of brain cancer, for the last four months of her life, I cared for her day and night. People would tell me how wonderful, how brave I was. They thought I was being so completely unselfish. I must hold some kind of secret, because they thought they wouldn't be able to do that sort of thing. But I moved into my parents' house, bathed, coaxed sips of water into, changed the diaper of, held the hand of, and tried desperately to understand the mumbled mixed up words of my dying mother for completely selfish reasons.

I wanted to be like God. I wanted to understand everything. I wanted to be omniscient. I wanted to make instant connections between life and death, and have it all make sense. I wanted to know everything and hold it all in my hands. I wanted to hold my mother's pain and her inability speak, her jumbled, mumbled words, even my dad's false teeth or the dead skin that peels off my feet, my mom's diseased cells multiplying as a cancerous tumor, her dog that never left her side, the scar on her head, the one on her neck, and her missing ovary. I wanted to care for it all.

But all I could do was care for my dying mother, and make art. I made vessels so I could try to hold that cancer and pain.

Now, I'm older. I no longer want to be like God. The vessel stage has passed (sort of). My fingers no longer wiggle and I'm happy to shove my art work in front of anyone feigning interest.

There are no more secrets. Even if there ever was one, it was only ever this simple: This is what I do.

Squirrel Bones and Possum Skulls

Although I live in the city of Los Angeles there is much undeveloped land in my neighborhood. In my backyard I have found: owl pellets with full, intact vole skeletons hidden away inside; many possum jaw bones; a squirrel carcass just fur and bones that was unfortunately squirreled away by some other animal before I could get at it. On the hillside across the street we have found: a cat skull with all its teeth; a possum tail; a portion of (I think) a small dog skull. I have even inspired little girls to collect bones for me on the hillsides of Los Angeles.

But why do I gold leaf them and put them in "ceremonial tins?"

The easy answer is: I can change something tiny (icky even) into something so big and worthy.

The short version of a complicated answer: Making forgotten dead things important - I realize now that even though my process has changed, 15+ years later, I am still making artwork about my mother's death.

Because of My Friend Rosie

For the last few years, whenever I went to visit My Friend Rosie in the neighboring State of Nevada, we would hole up in her house for 72 hours straight and craft - craft, craft, craft, craft, craft. From about 1997 - 2005 I had been on a hiatus from artmaking. These intense crafting sessions with Rosie were the closest I came to creating art.


After one such weekend a few years ago, I ended up with this...

...the very beginning of my obsession with shrinky dinks, gold leaf, and birdhouses.


Soon thereafter, in an epiphany (hey, my calendar states that today, January 6, is the Epiphany), I realized that I could embrace my crafty love in the pursuit of "serious" artmaking.


Although I still see Rosie regularly, we no longer craft together. She has recently given me permission to write about the reasons for that. Perhaps soon, I will share that story here. Thanks in more ways than one, Rosie, for giving me permission to make art again.

Peripheral Vision

(I wrote this sometime around 1991 after my mother had died of brain cancer. It has been edited for this blog.)

My mother told me that six days ago she noticed she had lost her peripheral vision. If she took her hand and lifted it from her side, straight up in front of her, she couldn't see it. She also realized she had been running into things and tripping over the dog, Louie. She said that the other night when they were out to dinner with their best friends from high school (my mom and dad started going together when they were 14) she knocked over two drinking glasses. The next day she went to her eye doctor who immediately sent her to her medical doctor who immediately sent her to a neurologist.

She has a brain tumor. I cried and she held my hand.

****
Ah, there's a parking space, on the other side of the street. Great, I can avoid the $3.00 fee in the lot here without having to go all the way up the street to the Von's store lot. There are the mountains; pretty clear for August. Damn it's hot. My sweaty finger gets a shock from the blinker lever. Hope it doesn't kill me.

I start to move over to the left of the one way street going north. The spot looks just barely big enough to back into. Those cars are coming up pretty fast behind me. They don't like it when I stop. How do they parallel park on a busy street? Am I missing something? Does that back blinker even work? Wesley is singing out the window from the passenger seat.

"Those cars are going faster than you, mom." He accuses between stanzas. Loud singing.

"Why are you slowing down, mom?" More singing.

"Stay in this lane, mom!"

Is there room in that spot? Sweat runs down my neck; drips from my armpit.

"Can I have a GI Joe for my birthday when I’m five, mom?"

"No, we've discussed it before."

More singing/yelling. Is that white van going to stop? I have to back into this spot. No, it doesn't even slow, but swerves around. I swing my head around to Wesley. The van honks, too loudly and too long. I yell at Wes to STOP for a minute so I can concentrate and park the car. As kids we played guns and war. Is it so wrong for my son to have war toys?

"Maaaawm, it's so hot…I'm tired…I can't walk anymore." His whining, and the cars, and the van honking, and that passing car radio, and the echo my voice makes in my head when I'm trying to talk over this cacophony - it bounces around and never comes out - and that Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunk of his cowboy boots two sizes too big.

"My back has been hurting again," I tell him. "Get up here first, then I'll pick you up and carry you." Wes climbs up on the three-foot high brick wall. There are bugs and bird-shit on the wall just like on my car. "Don't say bird-poop." With a straight face my dad scolded me when, at eight years old, I exclaimed what I'd found on top of our camper, "say bird-SHIT," he smiled. Wes walks on the wall instead of being carried.

This lawn is too green. Isn't there a drought? Why don't cars stop anymore? There's an empty aluminum beer can. I'll pick it up on the way back to recycle for a few cents. Warm Miller smells like pee. Wes will shake the can to get out the earwigs that are drinking their little pointed butts off. Do earwigs have butts? Yeah, they must.

Wesley picks one of every flower that we pass by. "For you, mom." I put them in my buttonhole and they fall out in the next few steps. I wonder if Wesley will ask me about them later.

He pretends to pick a three-foot rose that is painted on a billboard. "This one's for Nana."

"She'll like that, Sweetie."

There's a dead butterfly on the sidewalk, laying on a crack.

"Don't step on the cracks, mom"

We stop to watch ants crawling all over the butterfly's wings and dead body.

"Are ants good?"

"Yes, they eat and get rid of dead things. I don't like them in my house, but…." He's up at the next bush catching gold moths that are out for the small purple summer flowers.

"Mom, do bugs poop?"

"I think so."

Wes is indignant. "But they don't have butts!"

I'm trying not to step on the cracks.

"Are moths good mom?"

"Yes, let it go, your fingers take off the shiny stuff on their …"

"But I want to give it to the ants."

Is it wrong for a boy to want to kill bugs? I lift the collar of my T-shirt up over my nose and wipe the sweat off my face.

"For you, mom." Wesley Kaa-lunks up from behind and reaches up with one of the small purple flowers the moths were going after. I put it in my empty buttonhole.

In the hospital Wesley Kaa-lunk, Kaa-lunks towards the elevator "I want to push the button!"

The sign in the elevator says "Parking tickets validated for intensive care, days of admitting, discharge and surgery only." I could have parked in the lot today. There are scuffs on the dark brown linoleum. What is that white mesh stuff up on the ceiling hiding the lights? How come you never get used to that sick feeling when the elevator starts and stops. Wes looks at me and giggles, "Whoa." He folds his arms over his stomach as the elevator stops.

Four hours later the doctor comes into the surgery waiting room. Am I the only one who wants to cry all the time? No one else looks like it. Maybe I don't look like it either. The doctor is talking quietly to my dad at the door. Shouldn't he be talking to all of us? I overhear the doctor across the room, "Shurn dig um ash land dif radiation, but we feel good about it."

"Flab is nif ixm benign or only a few months to live," the doctor continues, …can't be sure yet, but we feel good about it."

Later we find out he was lying about the last part.

It's 11:00 p.m. I push the elevator down button. Wes went home with Al three hours ago. He cried and grabbed my arm and pleaded, "I want to stay with you! I want to stay with you!" I tried to think of the right thing to say. I heard him crying all the way out as he went with his dad. "I'll be home later. I promise."

A lady gets in at the second floor. The elevator continues down. The lady flutters her hand over her heart and looks up at the white mesh hiding the lights. "Heart be still," she says. I guess she got that queasy feeling.

"My uncle just had 17 stitches in his head!" she exclaims.

I look at her. Why don't people stop? I had to back up to park.

"Blood all down the side of his head," she continues.

I want to tell her that my mother just had brain surgery. I just look at her.

"Someone hit him over the head with a gun." I look at her. "And can you believe it? It was a friend of his!" she adds.

"Usually is," I tell her. We get off the elevator at ground level. I have trouble finding my car.

When I get home I look at my sleeping husband. My son is grinding his teeth in his sleep. I can hear it across our small house. I go to his room and place my hand on his jaw. I start the shower. The water is so hot. I'll just watch it for a while as it runs off my hair. And that water saving showerhead we got free from the DWP is so loud. I could have parked in the lot today. I forgot to give my mom the big billboard rose Wes picked for her. Why don't they see the back up lights and blinker on?

How to leave a Comment

Several people have asked me about leaving a comment.

You may already know how and are now rolling your eyes, or you may be uninterested in commenting. If that's you, well just scroll along now and let the rest of us have a little conversation.

Anyone can comment. After clicking on "comment" under the post, you will be taken to a screen with a box on the right. Just type your comment in the box. Underneath that, copy in the "word verification." (I like to try to use this nonsense word in a sentence - good fun.) After that you must "choose your identity." Google account is the default and uses your email address which will show up on the blog next to your comment. If you don't want to use your email address, you can click on "name" or even click "anonymous." Be sure to click "publish comment."

balance, balance . . . barely balancing

Turkey Shoot

2007

birdhouse, golf tee, gold leafed polymer clay, trophy parts

16" high

Turkey Shoot is part of the Altar/Trophy series dealing with the same issues as the previous altar post.

"Steady now, balance . . . balance, I think it's leaning a bit . . . careful! . . . ."

Altar

Altar
shrinky dinks, trophy base, porcelain bowl
2007
7" high

Altar detail

The first in a series of altar/trophy pieces examining my willingness to make art while being a middle aged mom and an adoring craft lover. (Not craft as in well made - a master craftsman, although I can appreciate that. I mean that I adore the craft store.)

More altar/trophy pieces coming soon.

Feeble Earnestness

Someone recently described my artwork as "feeble earnestness."

I was trained to be a serious artist; to digest critical theory; to name drop. Trouble is, although I take my work seriously, I can be a real goof. Reading critical theory makes me loopy, and I can never remember which artist's name belongs with which piece of art. Struggle, struggle, struggle. How can I be an artist if I haven't got the serious part of it down?

And so I've decided to take the "feeble earnestness" critique in the best possible way. It was an astute observation and a triumph of sorts. It seems to describe the hardworking goof that I am. I will revel in it, rejoice and roll around in it, like a happy puppy on its back with its paws in the air. Give me a little scratch on the tummy, will ya, by posting a comment.

Corpus Delicti (again)

Click on the lower image to get a closeup of those teeth.

Another from the Corpus Delicti series

Part of a small dog skull

in a ceremonial Altoids tin

2008

"Holy eggplant May, that's a beautiful shiner"

I live in Los Angeles.
I take the bus.
I ride a child's Razor Scooter several miles to connect my home, bus commute, and work.

Two blocks from the bus stop early on a Saturday morning, I decide to jump off rather than risk scraping the bottom of the scooter on, and perhaps falling over, an uplifted section ahead in the sidewalk. Good move, I congratulate myself. The next thing I think is, "Odd…my feet are not on the ground."

I fall. Hard. On my head. Laying on the ground, watching the blood drip on the sidewalk, politely asking my head not to bleed on my suede jacket, I marvel at the wild spinning sensation I’m experiencing.

Must....get....to work....

I stumble onto the city bus heading toward downtown L. A. and sit in the first handicapped spot, avoiding glances while trying to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The white paper napkins in my hand, donated by a non English speaking passerby, are wadded and red as I dab at my bleeding, rapidly swelling eyebrow and lip. ("Es muy malo?" I asked the passerby. "No...," he said with a sympathetic uncertain look, offering me the bit of "papel.") On the bus, I'm thinking I look like a runaway battered wife, who has grabbed a few things in a backpack and escaped on the kid's scooter so the abusive husband wouldn't hear the car starting up and driving away.

How much blood is smeared on my face? I must look a mess! (Ya think?!) I lick a clean spot on my napkin and wipe my cheek, looking back at the napkin to try and get an idea of my appearance. Oh God. Licking my wounds! Now I just look freaky, forget the abused wife syndrome. I'm reminded of the very marginal guy who sat in front of me on the bus last week. He could NOT stop picking at a scab on the back of his head. It made me a little queasy, but just as he could not stop picking, I could NOT stop watching. I imagine everyone on this bus cannot stop watching this borderline crazy.

I'm sitting beneath the sign that asks me to relinquish my seat to the elderly and handicapped. Nobody should need to be told this with a sign - it's just good manners and our moral duty. I am embarrassed to have chosen this seat, but shakiness and an acute need to avoid eye contact keeps me here.

Thirsty, suddenly so thirsty. I open my backpack to pull out my water bottle. But I’m having trouble finding it and need to scrounge around, pulling out a few items to get a better look inside. I'm on my way to teach my observational drawing class which means I carry props with me for my students to draw. My backpack is my prop bag.

I pull out a stuffed animal - an old, gaudy orange and blue striped fish. Then out comes an onion, a lemon, and a little orange toy shovel. Who carries this stuff in a backpack? That would be the seriously marginal, probably crazy, wound-licking, trash hoarding lady on the bus to downtown L.A. The realization makes me laugh out loud. The bus turns onto Main Street and I've turned the corner to Schizophrenic. I am no longer embarrassed by my seat. Schizophrenics belong up front, always ready for a hasty exit.

This, quite obviously, is the makings of a good story. Laughing quietly to myself, still dabbing my wounds and feeling the lump rising across my forehead, with my stuffed animal in my lap, I start to turn towards my elderly Chinese neighbor to ask for paper and pencil.

corpus delicti (more)

More from the Corpus Delicti Series
3" x 5"

Who would have thought so many small animals' bones could be found in a backyard in Los Angeles.

And, why is she gold leafing them?

a golden oink

It Was Warm and Oinked a Golden Oink
work in progress
10"x 12"

My thrift store and gold leafing adventures in drawings and words, on a 78 rpm record sleeve book.

detail of page 2

detail of page 3

corpus delicti (cont.)

More from the Corpus Delicti Series
2008
4" x 5" x 3"

Cat skull gold leafed and presented in ceramic box.

corpus delicti

From the Corpus Delicti Series
2008
size - think Altoids

Small animal bones, collected from the yard and surrounding hill, gold leafed and presented in ceremonial Altoids tins.

point system 1957

Point System 1957
(also known as Madge)
2007
12" tall

Commissioned by and created for a good friend - a sexy songwriter, a wife, and a homeschooling mom.

note to noho1960: no adhesive - the trophy part has a threaded attachment and she's just screwed right in there.