Abandoning my creative offspring

I have long lived in fear of the day a stranger buys one of my paintings.

In the past four or five years, I’ve completed 112 oil paintings, and I’m almost out of walls on which to hang them.

I’ve given my children so many paintings of themselves that one of them has begged me to find another model. “How conceited do I seem,” he asks, “when people walk into my house and see the walls plastered with oil portraits of myself?”

I don’t know. How conceited is too conceited?

I like that I can enter his home and revisit pieces into which I put my heart and soul… although I was taken aback a bit to find one of my best pieces hanging in his bathroom.

But at least I know where the kids’ pieces are.

I’ve given completed pieces to a number of friends and relatives, and I’ve wondered what they’ve done with them. Have they put them in a prominent place? In a dim but somewhat traveled hallway? In a hidden corner of the house just above the litter box?

Can’t ask. Don’t dare.

But at least I know who owns my oeuvre.

Right now, a gallery which has been kind enough to show my work is soliciting tiny 4×6 art pieces which will be sold online and on site during the December holidays, to raise funds. I’ve sent them three pieces.

Prospective buyers will not know who has crafted each piece, and I don’t think we artists will know whether our pieces sell. (I may be wrong about that.)

Either way, I won’t know whether my work will end up in the gallery’s dustbin, or in someone’s home. Will any of my little pieces help fill a Christmas stocking? Will they hang in someone’s kitchen, or office, or bedroom? Will they bring anybody joy?

I don’t know, and I hate that!!!

I feel like I’ve given newborn kittens to the city shelter, where I’ll never know if they’re adopted or euthanized.

Isn’t that preposterous?

I’m so very tempted to buy them myself.

But where will I put them?

They may end up in a sad little box that lives in my studio, filled with pictures of people I don’t know and with three pieces that were rejected by their subjects. My children have been instructed to bring the box to my funeral and place it by the casket with a sign that says, “take one.”

I’ll have stopped wondering then.

Children see.

Watch what you do around children. You never know what they’ll observe.
My little duo watched us incessantly… and sometimes, this was creepy.
I remember being in the house with them on a beautiful sunny afternoon, as they consumed hour after hour of overly familiar children’s television.
I went into the den, shut off the TV, and shooed them out of the house.
“Get out! Go out in the sun! Get some fresh air. Pretend you’re actual children. ENJOY YOURSELVES!”
“But what are we going to DO?” they asked in despair.
“I don’t know! Play ball! Race each other down the street. Climb a tree. Do SOMETHING!”
I shut the front door behind them, and started doing something pretty rare myself. I started cleaning the house.
After a few minutes of mopping the den, I went back into the kitchen to get fresh water for my cleaning bucket. I glanced at the window above the sink, and found my wee ones standing on the porch, with their noses plastered against the screen, looking inside.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as inappropriately as always.
“We’re watching you, Mommy,” they replied.
They’d converted me into programming, since that was the only entertainment they understood.
They belonged to the Age of Spectators… and everything they saw, they absorbed.
They watched us do some stupid things over the years, and they caught on to mannerisms we didn’t even know we had.
I took the oldest one to a community theater one evening, to see a very dear friend in a play.
When it was over, I asked her, “What did you think?”
“I liked it,” she said.
“So did I,” I concurred. “The lines were really funny, and the direction was very brisk.”
“And?” my daughter asked.
“And what?”
“You hated something. What is it?”
“No, I didn’t! What makes you say that?”
“Whenever we see a show, if you say two nice things about it, you go on to say something awful. Then you say something nice again. What didn’t you like?”
I stared at her in disbelief. She had just described my college acting teacher’s technique of giving a “criticism sandwich.” In order to protect her students’ fragile egos, she would always review their scene work by saying two very nice things. “You look so beautiful in your costume, and you walk across the stage with such grace!” Then she’d point out something the student should improve. “You might want to work on your accent though; at no point should Eliza Doolittle ever sound Swedish.” Before the student had a chance to burst out in tears, she’d wrap up her critique with something nice. “But I congratulate you on your posture; you really do look like a Duchess.”
I had no idea how deeply this technique had become embedded in repertoire.
I also found out that day that my daughter considered me somewhat of a hypocrite; she did not trust the three positive statements in which I was wont to wrap my censure.
To this day, I tread very lightly when praising or disparaging anything in her presence.
That kid gleaned too much… and her brother is, if possible, even more observant.
He held his cards closer to the vest, though, and sometimes, it took years for us to know what he’d noticed.
By the time he reached his early twenties, he had developed a singing voice that even angels would envy. I was absolutely convinced he’d sing in all the major opera houses of the world, but his pastor had other plans for him. He did everything possible to get the boy into the priesthood. I thought he wanted him to spend the rest of his life leading congregations in the performance of the 1940 Episcopal Hymnal, but that wise young priest had other ideas. He wanted my son to share his wisdom, his leadership and his sweetness with the people of the parish.
To that effect, he invited my son to preach one Sunday, and my husband and I were thrilled to go to Mass and hear what he had to say.
I wish I could repeat his sermon verbatim, but I’ll try to give you the gist of the thing.
He told the congregation that there are many ways one can learn to be a Christian. A person can read the Bible, attend services, go to parochial schools, go on retreats… or a person could find someone who always behaved like a Christian, and try to emulate that person from day to day.
He recounted that when he was a small boy, a man walked into our Church after being absent for many weeks.
He heard some parishioners talking about him… the man had lost his job, fallen off the wagon, and was now in danger of losing his home.
One man walked right over to this fellow, and threw his arms around him. “Hey, buddy! It’s good to have you back!” And as the end of the embrace, he sneaked a $20 bill out of his sleeve and put it in the fellow’s pocket.
“I was the only one who saw, that,” said my son, “and I was the only one who knew what a sacrifice this man was making. You see, I knew that $20 represented his lunch money for the week, but he cared more for his friend’s welfare than he did for his own comfort.”
“And that was one of the moments when my Dad showed me what it meant to really be a Christian.”
Thank God my kids are observant… and thank God they’ve had a father like my husband whose ways they could absorb.

 

via Daily Prompt: Observe
Observe

Anticipating euphoria

via Daily Prompt: Glimmer
Glimmer

When we’re young we experience the pleasure of living through transformative experiences for the first time. When we are old, we experience the redoubled joy of watching our young ones discover the things we’ve loved. We know what they will see, and anticipate what they will hear; we look forward to learning what they feel.
My children are about to take their spouses on an adventure that has filled our family with joy for generations. They will not wear gowns or tuxedos, as people did in my day, but they will certainly be dressed with extra care, because they’re venturing into a world peopled by ladies and gentlemen, where everyone speaks in rounded tones, and better manners are displayed.
They will walk up a busy plaza, and pass by a glittering fountain, where tourists take each others’ pictures and youngsters pause to kiss in the moist air. They will see enormous posters, inviting them to come and witness the greatest artists of our day. They’ll look at the marbled edifice where they are headed, and through its great windows, they’ll see enormous Chagall originals, painted by the master’s hand and hung where they can be enjoyed by neophytes and cognoscenti alike.
As they approach the great glass doors, anxious devotees will beg them to give up their tickets, since these are no longer available. They will not divest themselves of their prized chits until they’re standing inside, ready to prove to the beautifully uniformed greeters that they have purchased their right to proceed.
Then they’ll walk up red-carpeted stairs, and enter the great gold elevators that will carry them to the highest tier of the auditorium. As they emerge, I hope they will listen to the people with whom they’ll wait in the lobby. These aren’t the jaded gentry, entertaining clients or impressing the sweet young things they hope to seduce. They’re the ones who really love the art in which they’re about to become immersed… the ones who will speak of past productions, and compare today’s performers with those who were silenced long ago.
They’ll feel a moment of magic as they enter the auditorium, and once again as they take their red velvet seats. The first view of their surroundings will leave them short of breath. They’ll marvel at the cavernous hall… the impossibly vast stage, which seems to be more than a block away… the rising bands of seats, filled with people abuzz with excitement…the gleaming gold ceilings, that form a sky worthy of deities.
If they are like me, they will be most mesmerized by the lamps. It’s impossible to describe the marvel of these crystal clusters, emitting and reflecting light with an intensity and an incandescence that would put most galaxies to shame. How they glimmer! How they glow! How they transport the spectator into a marvelous dimension where light is sound and sound is warmth and warmth is love, and love is knowledge and knowledge is joy!
And then the lights will dim. The lamps will be raised higher and higher. The house will become dark.
Down below the stage, a simple light will shine. A man will step up to a podium, and the house will be filled with applause.
The program will begin.
The orchestra will knit the sound of its instruments into a flawless carpet on which voices can ride and rise. Singers will produce sounds which the angels might envy, as they act out stories of uncommon passion. Harmonies will be heard which will never be forgotten, which will play in one’s head and one’s heart whenever there’s a need for beauty, and for transcendence.
And then the performance will end. The audience will stand and applaud, the performers will bow and blow kisses, flowers will fly through the air, tears will be shed all around. There will be those who rush out of the building, hoping to catch those damned elusive cabs that race out to Port Authority. Others will slowly emerge, walking as though in a dream, trying to recapture the ephemeral glow of everything they’ve seen and heard.
Those who attempt to speak will find their voices still filled with wonder.
Those who reach out to touch their companions will find their hearts incandescent with love.
I am proud of my children for introducing their spouses to the opera, and I pray the day comes when they’ll bring their children to the Met as well.