One bright star, no more, no less

Three wise camels, no GPS

Now I Will Try Your Patience

I've been feeling a little guilty that this blog is really my attempt at a journal, but I always rationalized that no one is being forced to read it--and no one does. Okay, I just checked out the "Blogs of Note" on the Blogspot site--I feel guilty no more. Lots of crazy stuff out there.

SPOILER ALERT: I am going back to the journal, nothing interesting from here on out.

So, back to art. I have recently realized that I am hiding something. It is hiding so deep that even I didn't know it was there until I recognized it recently. From birth (okay maybe five) to college, I wanted to be an artist. I looked at everything in life through this lens of art. Tried to make sense of things through art. Gave my life worth through art. It was my religion.

Then I made the decision to go to college and not art school. I was scared. I had no confidence that I would make it as an artist and I was interested in lots of things, I was a good student, I was lucky enough to have the choice. So I went to college. I took art courses but they were not inspiring. So I took art history courses which I loved. But there was something killing about art history courses for me. It is like standing on top of a mountain and realizing what an insignificant speck you are. Except, that what is a humbling experience in one situation (mountain), in another situation can just erode any confidence that ever existed (and wasn't nearly enough to begin with). Tragic, right?

I think maybe this is why I am able to write with abandon, despite my shortcomings. I was not a great reader as a kid (see previous entry) and though I now read loads, any of the books popular when I was a teen are missing from my personal inventory. I don't have that weight on my back.

Art ran a ground somewhere as far as I was concerned. After conceptual art (remember: "I had an artistic thought today."?) and the Colorfields, I was left cold. I loved the thoughts behind these pieces, and I still love discussing and defending why something should be in a museum. But art was becoming a physical expression of a philosophical thought and the thrill of actually doing art was forgotten. It seemed in the big picture that made me small time. I don't think I ever saw myself as a philosopher. I like the feel of paint, the touch of pen to paper, the peeling off of a print from the press. There is something tactile in art that is so sexy. Is that the right word? I am not sure that is exactly what I mean but I do get a quivery feeling in my gut when I think about these things.

What I have realized is that I have closed off this part of myself, strangled it. I let it gasp air every once in a while in a very controlled way. I have failed in so many ways, but I think what hurts is that it's not a matter of bravery, I think I would have failed in art no matter what.

Of course, I can still make art and I can still go to the art museum. When I do, I sometimes get this feeling of love. That is the right word. And I wonder what it is a love for. Is it love of art or a love for an earlier version of myself. Or is it the feeling that people get when they find their true religion. It's not a choice, it's just there, making the world feel complete and good and that there are infinite possibilities. Making you feel like you would like to be worthy, but aren't--yet. Like you would like to feel this way all the time but don't. A fleeting, foggy glimpse of heaven.

I was asked once at a party what my books were about. I had to think because I had never really thought about my work as a whole like that. But I did find a common thread: The power of art (whatever art you choose) to overcome. That is broad and all encompassing I suppose, but I really do think that if teenagers can find a medium to express themselves, if they can put their creative juices to work in some way it can help them through. Of course, I don't think that is only true for teenagers, but so many adults are fixed in their ways and weighed down by responsiblity. The ones who do come to art (again the broad sense of art) later are always very interesting people, though.

Wow, there were points when I almost stopped writing this to cry, but I am glad I made it to a more positive note to end on.

View from Above

Writing has come as a surprise creative outlet for me. Going to conferences or reading authors writing about themselves, I realize that I should have been an avid, bookworm all my life, always scribbling down stories, keeping a journal etc. I should have certain books that "saved my life." I should be someone who is meticulous about grammar and spelling--feeling outraged and bothered by the mistakes I see in print. I might even go so far as to correct people who say "good" when "well" is appropriate. I am none of these things.

I was not a great reader. I loved picture books--still love picture books--but more for the pictures. As a teen, I had trouble getting into novels. If it didn't grab me right away, I tended to put it down. I rarely finished books, even for important things like book reports. I am still an abysmal proofreader. I have only a vague idea of when to use a comma. Don't get me started on the semi colon--is it ever appropriate? I am okay with periods--most the time. My spelling is largely phonetic until Spellcheck gets a hold of my work. I don't even see mistakes in print--even when it is pointed out to me. Doesn't bother me a bit. I sometimes wistfully imagine what it must have been like to live in Chaucer's time when (it seems to me) rules of language were more malleable.

Yet I write. Am compelled to write. It is a bit crazy to face this struggle day after day. Even if I were to sell my work the only real benefit that I can expect is to be sharing it with readers. I don't expect to support myself from my labors in writing. I know enough writers, have heard enough to know that if it isn't total fantasy it is a long way off. In the mean time labor that does pay competes for my time.

I tried to quit once. It didn't work, but it had a good effect. This may sound strange but it is kind of like the guy in A Clockwork Orange after he jumps out the window. Once you have survived the worst-in his case suicide, mine quitting-nothing matters anymore. It released me from the peer pressure that publishing is the only measure of how whether what I do is worthwhile and the need to devote chunks of time selling instead of writing. Time I don't have. Did I miss the whole point of A Clockwork Orange? It's possible. I just remember him going back to his old ways after jumping out the window. I have never been able to watch that movie a second time and it was a long time ago. I apologize to all those cult fans of the movie, if I somehow took away a skewed, or trivial idea. The point is quitting freed me. Everything, all the time I eked out to write, was a gift.

Actually this blog was going to be about art not writing. Oh well. Next time. I guess I needed confess first. Though I allow myself to write I still need to justify it partly because my first impulse when I could hold a pencil was not to write a story it was to draw. That is where this was supposed to be going but I won't tax your patience.

Intimidation

She may look confident, but our dog doesn't actually play chess that well.

Happy Birthday Hugo

How did we get here?

Just doing my job.

When is enough, enough? I designed the above for a card of congratulations on the new job. Maybe it is too opaque but I find it hilarious--must me my warped sense of humor. I must admit that at times I find it hard to keep chugging along. In my work and my writing. I cannot think of the publishing thing, because I imagine publishing a book is like giving birth. It is terribly difficult to get the thing out there, but that is just the beginning and then eventually you have to let go. So I focus on the joy of escaping into a new world, on walking with my characters through the story. I have a vague idea of where I want to end up, but how I get there is uncharted. Sometimes, I end up in a new place but by then it's okay. It's like reliving life over and over in different guises. I suppose it is what actors do, except that it is on the exterior and for writers it is an interior activity.

Real Perilous Places

I guess this blog is really a diary, since no one is reading it. That's okay. There is something about putting it out there that is somehow pacifying. Especially, putting my pictures somewhere other than in stacks in the basement. Each of my drawings is a piece of me (fabulous Patricia Barber song, by the way). And I know when I die, only my children for a time might have an interest, but I know, someday down the line, they will find there way into the trash. But by scanning and posting them there is a little gallery of my own.

Anyway, why this picture, why now. I often wonder why I do these drawings, what in my personality and history brings me to this creation. I came across this little picture of Switzerland from a couple of years ago. It was a view from the train from Vevey to Geneva. Done very quickly then worked over later, part reality, part fantasy. We lived in Switzerland and have family there, so it is a place I am familiar with and it is a country full of perilous places. Fascinating little villages perched on the sides of mountains and lakes. Perhaps that somehow those landscapes soaked into my brain. I have always been fascinated by the combination of nature and architecture. When I was younger one of my favorite things to do was to design houses. My houses always had a stream going through the middle. Of course now that I am a house owner and I can appreciate things like dry basements and lack of humidity and bugs, it doesn't seem so attractive. I also always wanted to live in a haunted house, instead I write. Writing is like living in a haunted house with out the cold spots.

Why I Write

The other night there was a big shindig that I help to organize. I am not much into parties but I can understand their purpose and how others enjoy them. I always think of my daughter's (from a teacher originally) definition of introvert/extrovert. An introvert is someone who draws their energy from being alone and an extrovert draws their energy from being with other people. I am definitely an introvert and parties seem to drain me of energy. Anyway, I was glad to have some good conversations with people I hardly ever see.

The evening seemed to epitomize a problem I am having right now. People show me no respect. I am not just talking about strangers in lines at the post office, I am talking about friends, colleagues and even family. And I am not talking about compliments and deferential treatment, I am talking about common courtesy and understanding. People just chop away at my self esteem little by little or because of my various "jobs," force me to submit to others who put me down in the small and quiet ways to exult themselves.

So I now have to ask myself, "What do I do that causes this behavior?" Do I treat others without respect? Am I too passive? Do I make myself a victim? Perhaps more importantly, how can I change? These answers may come in a future blog for now I am still digesting the information.

This is why I love children's books (I include YA in that category) because as wrong as everything seems in chapter one or five, by the end, the character has worked it out, has learned, there is still hope. Of course, there are exceptions and I don't have to have a happy ending, but most books for kids end with at least hope. Okay, not Cormier's I am the Cheese.

When I write I feel like if my characters can stay true to themselves and do what they think is right, there is still hope. I can't write it any other way. It also helps me imagine what these people who attack me are thinking, why they act this way. Writing helps me understand. It doesn't make it easier to take, I still want to change something about my life right now, but for those few hours I get to order the world. I get to make problems and watch my characters save themselves. I can describe the injustice of it all in a way that exposes the ridiculousness of life, the unfairness, the stupidity. It is why I like Jane Austen, I guess. Contrary to all advice and practical judgement her heroines hold out against the pressure to do what is against their conscience.

One to escape and one take me back to reality.

I am rereading Thornyhold by Mary Stewart right now. It was recommended by Meg Cabot--not a personal friend unfortunately, it was on her website or something. Anyway, it is an old book and has the feel of a Rebecca. A gentle Gothic romance. I rarely reread books but sometimes it is nice to know where you are going and anticipate the turns.

I am also listening to Marcello in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork. I like the exploration of someone with--to simplify--Asberger's Syndrome. Unfortunately, I find it a bit predictable although I am not done so perhaps there are still some surprises ahead. I hope so. I find myself wondering about the depiction of Marcello. I know two people diagnosed with Asbergers. One that has been through some special educational instruction and one who was mainstreamed. I wish they had some of the resources that Marcello has or that their conditions were as mild as his seems to be.

I'm in the tree house.

This was done before vacation. It is interesting to me that there is a completely different feel to this perilous place than to the one I posted yesterday (done on vacation). It is a different medium of course but still this feels more Twilight Zone than Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, to me.

Inexplicable

Nightmare on Elm Street

Why is this a perilous place? Because it is going to be torn down any day now.

This does not have to do with children's books and illustration directly. It is more about preservation, recycling and waste. To me, however, there is a link to some of the things I like to rant about--building, destroying, creativity, imagination. You see this house is a part of my dreams and wishes, and now physically it will be gone.

Here is my story. I live in the tear-down capital of the United States. Mostly, it is pretty depressing what they replace the houses with. This has been my favorite house for as long as I can remember. I sort of latched on to it in my imagination and I dreamed about one day living there. For some reason, even as a little kid, I had always dreamed of living in a house with a history. Not that this one has a specific story--I can always supply the story part.

I go by this house every day. Mostly, while walking to and from school with my children. It is a saving grace that my son just graduated from his elementary because I won't be forced to pass it this year. Once, I noticed the front door was open and I ventured up on the porch and rang the bell, just to tell the gentleman who lived there how much I liked his house. No one ever came to the door but from what I could see from the porch, I realized the house was too nice for me. It was elegant and welcoming and beautifully furnished. I am a make do, fix it up, garage sale type. Still, it was something I aspired to.

Unfortunately, when it went up for sale, the price made it out of the question for us. I was able to go through it during the open house. I hoped it was too beautiful to tear down. I was wrong.

So my kids and I went up and drew it. It is not a very good drawing. I will attempt a better but for now I wanted to post it so that somewhere it still exists. I always feel at odds with the values of the town I live in, but now I really wonder what I am doing living here. I used to think that the friction caused me to think and inspired me, but today I am just saddened by it. I look at everyone in the down town and they are like aliens. I guess I am the alien. An alien with a broken space ship since because of family, children, and resources, I am stuck here for a while.

Rockville in Fennville

Are You a Builder or a Destroyer.

It's been a while since my little Mo Willems tirade-not against Mo, of course. Spring, which is always crazy, gave way to summer and nothing seemed to slow down this year. Until Fennville. We went to Michigan for a week with my husband's family.
The house we rented had a little beach and there, I was able to continue my perilous pursuits. I had just finished a set of revisions on a novel, and while my daughter read my book aloud to me, my son collected rocks and I began piling them up. It was a distracted little activity in homage to Andy Goldsworthy in the beginning, but it grew. After a couple of days, I realized I was getting a little compulsive, and that it was really an extension of the tippy, crazy buildings I draw. My children began to help build and we searched for stones together. It was lovely.
I knew that it was a temporary "installation" but I imagined that the weather would topple it and the sand would bury it, even the water might wash in around them. Without really realizing it, in my imagination, it was all a part of the little rock city's history.
Two days before we left, someone with large feet wearing shoes, destroyed the whole thing. If they hadn't, I might not have realized how attached to it I was. It just seemed so senseless, and unnecessary.

Here are two things that it made me think of:
1. Why was I so invested in this creation?
2. What is it that makes people want to ruin things? Here was something that had nothing to do with this person. They could destroy it, so they did. Why?

It reminds me of children when they build something as tall as possible, because they can't wait to knock it down. We are all creators and destroyers inside, and all the time we are choosing which to be. Like, in kindergarten, I remember doing finger painting. I could never leave it be. The slippery paper and squishy paint felt too good. I would make a picture and then smoosh it and make another. The impulse is there. But I never smooshed someone else's painting.

Maybe the teetering piles of rocks defying nature and gravity was just too tempting. However, going forward, if I am ever tempted to destroy some one's work, I will remember all the bad karma that goes with it. Believe me, it's a lot.

By the way, thanks to the kind neighbor who took photos and gave them to me on our last day. It was a really lovely souvenir of our week.

Rock City

My daughter the graffiti artist!

Hooray for Mo Willems!

A day or two ago, Mo Willems was on NPR talking about drawing. In a nutshell, he questioned why people stop drawing when they become adults, and he encouraged adults to draw, doodle and serve as examples for children.

I have always felt this as well. People often say they "cannot draw" but what they are really saying is "I cannot draw to a certain standard." It is like people saying they "cannot sing." No one assumes that this person really cannot sing, if they have a voice otherwise. What they mean is they cannot sing well. Maybe these people do not enjoy drawing or singing because of the struggle to achieve an unrealistic product.

If you take this one step further, Americans loath amateurs. "If you can't be a prodigy, or make money at something what is the point, " seems to be the general opinion. The word amateur is even used as an insult here. This is a shame. Creativity is so essential to life--at least to me, and I have yet to make a living at it. If we just dedicated the time spent watching TV to creativity, it would be so powerful. I think people would be so much more satisfied with life.

One of the interesting things Mr. Willems pointed out was that in other eras everyone used to draw, he gave as an example the drawings of explorers. I have another example, Leonardo DaVinci. I believe (I am not a scholar, of course) that DaVinci became an accomplished artist because he drew to learn. His art was a way of understanding science and painting was just an offshoot of this discipline. One really learns so much by sitting still, looking and trying to record what you see. You realize that what you see is not always what you think you see, or that what you see is really so much more complex and beautiful than at first thought.

I am just giving up my post as Chair of Art Volunteer in the Classroom at my son's school. It has been a labor of love because I sometimes believe I am the only one who thinks it is so essential. We conduct discussions with the students--Socratic method. I ask the children to look at one (maybe others for comparison sake) piece of art and make observations for thirty minutes. Our job is really to keep the questions coming and listen to responses. I believe it is important because we are deluged with images all the time and don't realize that visuals are incredibly manipulative unless you question it. Oh well, I could go on and on.

I guess, like Mr. Willems, it is all so important to me, I cannot imagine art not being a part of everyone's expression. Like, when someone says, "I cannot draw," I silently believe that he/she is really an artist that has been smothered by society and commercialism. Though this is a belief almost like faith in that it comes so naturally to me, I do wonder sometimes if I am wrong. Am I blind when it comes to art? How ironic.

Bothered Birds

Bird Brains

Bird Humor Greeting Cards

Hello Out There

Sorry that it has been so long since my last posting. Revisions, taxes, illness but not in that order are my excuses. I am also wondering why you would want to listen to my ravings but whatever. One thing I wanted to do this year was log the books I have read. Mostly for myself but if anyone else wants to comment on them I would be really interested. A few years ago a writer in SCBWI logged all the books she read and she started to see repeating elements like: the best friend having red hair, mother dying, and lists. It would be cool to draw some comparisons like that but right now I just want to keep track. I did not start in January as I planned but I will list some of the ones I remember. Excuse the fact that I don't always have authors. When I get more or less up to date I will have the authors.



Tender Morsels: Brilliantly written retelling of the fairytale of Rose Red and Snow White. A lot of disturbing content so be prepared. The ending left me a little bit wanting.
Graceling: This was a fantasy about a land of several kingdoms where there are special individuals born with graces or talents. They are identifiable by their mismatched eyes. The main character is a girl who is graced with killing. I really liked the way the author worked with the central idea of being graced, the different problems facing these graces and how they are sometimes mistaken about their graces or how to use them. What I didn't quite buy was that she had actually been a killer. The central mystery and its connection with an evil king seem to be only a vehicle and not plausible.
Hunger Games: We listened to this on tape. It is brilliant. Thrilling and yet also meaty. It is set in a futuristic North America where most of the country is divided into districts that are subservient to The Capital which is not in the Rocky Mountains. Each year the districts must sacrifice a boy and a girl to a televised game of survival. There is so much here about human nature, the nature of government, poverty, and wealth.
Ransom My Heart, by Meg Cabot: This is a romance novel plain and simple. It is supposedly written by the princess of Cabot's Princess Diary series. There are sex scenes which I wasn't expecting from a YA Cabot.
Sunshine by Robin McKinley: This is a re-read for me which is rare. It is just the best vampire book to date. McKinley is the queen of the Beauty and the Beast re-tellers. She has done straight retellings twice--both excellent. This is a third less traditional take on the tale. I love the way she peals away the familiar world and even to the end you are discovering strange new details that totally fit in. The contrasts of light and dark, food and blood, baking and magic, human and Other are tangible. It continues to surprise me the second time around.
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman: Winner of the Newberry. I listened to the author read this and read the book. I really enjoyed it. Again the central mystery was not quite satisfying but the rest of the book is captivating.

That is all for now. Those were the ones off the top of my head, but there are more.

Dream City

This is another computer colored image. It is strange how the color changes the feel of the city. It makes it feel much more Dr. Seussish and less perilous.

Having Fun

This is a drawing that I did and I scanned it and colored it with the computer. Talk about fun!

Reading List

A blog seems like the perfect place to keep track of the books I've been reading. Most of the list will be YA novels. I'll read whatever else comes across my path but this is the genre I write and the one I seek out at the library. In case you are wondering whether you should read any further, I will give you a little recap of my loves and hates before we begin.
Loves:
Jane Austen (the whole shebang)
Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse
Eva Ibbotson (you pick)
Shannon Hale
Laura Halse Anderson
Peter Sis (picture books here)
Allen Say (as long as we are talking picture books)
Michael Sowa (illustrator, don't know the stories just like the art)
Edward Gorey (as long as we are talking about artists)
Jacob I Have Loved, Katherine Paterson
Homeless Bird, Gloria Whelan
When My Name Was Keoko, Linda Sue Park
Invisible Enemies, Jeanette Farrell (non-fiction about infectious disease)
Peeps, Scott Westerberg (brilliant companion to above, mixes vampires with diseases)
Sunshine, Robin McKinley (all time favorite vampire book, as long as we are talking vampires)
Thirsty, M.T. Anderson (still speaking of vampires)
Whales on Stilts, M.T. Anderson (I love his humor)
Sharon Creech (in general)
Meg Cabot (I am a sucker for romance and she does it brilliantly)
The Penderwicks & sequel, Jeanne Birdsall
Elsewhere, Gabrielle Zevin
The Watsons Go to Birmingham, Christopher Paul Curtis
Hatchet and Lawn Boy, Gary Paulsen
Very Far Away from Anywhere Else, Ursula LeGuin (a small marvel)
Richard Peck
Ann Rinaldi
Pete Hausmann
Jasper Fforde

I am going to stop now but I know that I have forgotten others that I will kick myself about later. Except for Jane Austen, this is all contemporary which does not mean that I don't like the classics. Lets cut down on negativity and skip the hates which are really more like disappointments anyway.

I've run out of time for the moment so I will post the 2009 beginning later.

If you have read this far, thanks.

Darcy

Night Scene

For Rent, Unfurnished

Another precariously constructed island of individuality in an ocean of glass skyscrapers.

Cityscape

I have always been fascinated by homes that express some sort of obsession. Like a house in our old neighborhood in Chicago that was covered, every inch, in crosses and symbols or the people who devote income and hours of work to decorate for Christmas and now Halloween. My own inclination is just the opposite. In practice, I think I am more aligned with Adolf Loos, if I understood him correctly. I reserve all my self expression for the interior. However, I am drawn in a strong way to the Merzbau's and Hundertwasser's of the world.

First Stop

This was one of my first color versions of my perilous places. This was a promotional "poster" and each building opened to reveal a synopsis of one of my books. You can see the buttons that served as knobs for each door.

Why is this place perilous?

Hello and welcome.

Don't worry, this blog is not full of hazards, at least not for visitors. Since this is my first blog, it feels more perilous to me than anyone else. However that is not the reason. The name has come from my artistic creations for which this blog is created (though I may end up posting other things as time goes on). For most of my life, or at least my young life when everything seemed possible, I thought of myself as an artist, and though in reality my creative juices have taken root in YA novels, I still feel like an artist deep down. I still draw and more often than not my doodling takes the form of fantastic buildings or cities. I don't know why I do this. It's either a rut or a bit of an obsession. Anyway, people seem to enjoy them and I have decided to find an outlet and am starting with this blog. Oh yeah, by the way, my construction methods are a little suspect, creating sometimes cozy but perilous structures.

There is a larger reason that I settled on this title instead of something like Precarious Palaces or Artful Architecture. Though it is not necessarily an original idea, I am convinced that humans crave peril. My husband and I started our own business about five years ago. It has ballooned into two huge endeavors. The first is a piano store, PianoForte Chicago, the other is a not-for-profit, PianoForte Foundation. Both have been rewarding in their own ways but they have also provided their fair share of perils. Why do we voluntarily quit our comfortable life for something so risky. In our case, it wasn't the idea of riches or glory. I am probably too close to be able to identify the reasons objectively but I can identify what makes us feel good about what we have done.

First, the peril makes us push ourselves to find the best we can be and do. It also exposes our inadequacies, by the way. But, though we have failures, the successes are sweet. It also makes me, and I think my husband as well, feel very alive. Struggle is healthy, and peril makes struggle necessary.

There is also the satisfaction of sharing what we have done with others. Finding people who appreciate our efforts makes it seem worthwhile. There is a joy in that connection. It is similar to when I imagine someone reading my words or looking at my art.

There is of course another satisfaction that comes from our work, that of creation. I also firmly believe that we all need to create. Starting a business is like writing a novel in so many ways. It teaches you about yourself: the good and the bad. The project is constantly being perfected and revised. In the end, you realize there is never an end but always a new challenge.

So, thanks for reading, if you have gotten this far. Now I will work on the posting of pictures--my next challenge. I guess doing a blog is a bit like starting a business or writing a novel.