Pleasure Notes

When I think of paintings on suede or velvet, images of Vegas and Elvis usually come to mind. Not that I spend much time thinking about paintings on suede and velvet. But I stumbled across an artist recently who made me pause and reevaluate my assumptions about what suede art, in particular, can be.

"Red Tulips" by Kate Moriarty

Kate Moriarty is an L.A.-based artist who captures misty dreamscapes with pastels and suede. Strange, but true. And amazingly beautiful.

"London Bridges" by Kate Moriarty

Don’t you just love when an artist surprises you into seeing something in a completely different light?

"Fade Away" by Kate Moriarty

I’ll never look at suede the same way again. Velvet, on the other hand, may indeed still remain associated with awful renditions of The King, and ’80s prom dresses. But, dare I say it, velvet gets the better song. I am far more likely to dance manically through my house to Black Velvet than to Blue Suede Shoes any day.

Now, do you have a preference for suede or velvet?

A few years ago, I read Philip Pullman’s phenomenal His Dark Materials trilogy. The idea that we each have a daemon, a companion creature that embodies our innermost character traits yet cannot be entirely contained within us, is not unique to these books, but Pullman’s articulation of the concept has stuck with me. I’ve found myself wondering what type of animal my daemon would be; none of us want to be identified with an ostrich or a Komodo dragon. Or maybe you do? During the past few weeks, I think I’ve discovered my daemon’s current incarnation:

A FERAL CAT.

I’m not talking about a lioness or a sleek black panther.

No.

I’m more of a mangy kitten with unclipped claws, and possibly fleas.

At some point, I might clean up nicely, if handled with care and patience. Recently, however, I’ve been slinking away to hunker down in the back of a dark cave, rejecting all coaxing to venture out into the sunlight, even when bribed with food. I’ve lost any sort of hunting instinct. I mew frequently, and for no apparent reason. I’m distracted by little flying objects. I claim sleep as my favorite, and most successfully accomplished, activity.

I must admit, I’d love to be exuding the personality, ambition and sexiness of a jaguar or cheetah. Even a lynx would be an acceptable representation of my inner self. It is damn disheartening to see oneself as a bug-infested, genetically nebulous, defeated stray.

The situation calls for a MAJOR REBOOT.

How the hell do people change who they are?

Actually, that’s not the right question. No one ever needs to change at his or her core. Don’t we all start out as amazing, beautiful, hopeful, inspired creatures? Just look at any infant for proof.

So the real question is: How does anyone change her or his self-perception and manner of interacting with the world?

via wpix

Debugging. You do not need to join the undead to see yourself, or engage with the world, differently. In fact, it’s a lot easier to combat fear, depression, lethargy, and ennui if one is physically healthy.

• Schedule those annual doctor’s appointments; unlike that Venti Mocha you chugged this morning, the expense is worthwhile – accepting, for the moment, the ridiculous, poverty-inducing, status quo cost of health care as a bitter pill that must be swallowed.
• Take the stairs instead of the elevator, unless you have to ascend more than five – start small - floors.
• Eat those dark green vegetables; there are at least FOUR different kinds of kale.
• Refrain from having peanut butter with every meal.
• Try doing something at least four times a week that increases your heart rate more than when you see that tousle-haired, obscenely attractive Damon Salvatore smirk.

by comsubin/flickr

Unmanging. Every single fashion designer claims to have coined the phrase, “you are what you wear.” Whoever did originate it was, unfortunately, more right than I like to admit. Yoga pants are a brilliant invention. When worn every single day for activities other than yoga, however, they actually induce bad posture and encourage overeating. We’re on a first name basis, so I know of what I speak. And yes, I have just personified yoga pants.

• Dress UP at least twice a week, including the complete “face” and accessories, whether or not you have anyplace to be. Use this as an excuse to find someplace to be. The grocery store does not count.
• Brush your hair at least once a day.
• Brush your teeth more often than you brush your hair. Floss too!
• Shave your legs, even if it’s still below freezing in your neck of the woods and no one is going to see them. Note: Guys, this does not apply to you. Please ignore unless you are a professional cyclist or water polo player. Thank you.

by fpsurgeon/flickr

Reclassifying. This world is a pretty incredible place. Scientists continue to discover new species. Paradigms are in constant flux. If transformation is inherent in nature, why not in us? What would happen if we told ourselves, each day, that EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE? That question bears repeating!

• Everything is possible. Not anything. Everything. You don’t even have to believe it. Just SAY it. Approach the day as if that was unquestionable truth.
• Here are some other unquestionable truths to toss around, just for the hell of it – and don’t worry, they make me squirm too…

You are physically beautiful, exactly as you are today.

You are accomplished, without need for exaggeration, qualification or justification.

You are going to be just fine, no matter what your familial, financial or physical situation is at this moment. In fact, you will be much better than fine.

Reality is rarely as terrifying or traumatic as our anticipation of it. Assume your reality adheres to this rule.

These are some of the steps I’m taking to shed the current incarnation of my daemon. I intend to uncover a glorious feline at the core of me. I know she’s there.

What is your current daemon? And when you want to change your self-perception or how you interact with the world, what do you do?

by ecotist/flickr

I’ve just leaped into an e-course, Across Mediums, created by Kate Swoboda to nurture creativity. My registration was a prize granted by the lovely Olive & Hope. I thought it would be a piece of cake. After all, I have a drawer full of art supplies, I’m planning to open an Etsy shop in March and the IRS knows me as a writer. I scream CREATIVE, right? Well, kinda. Upon reflection, I’ve realized my creative nature is frequently on the losing side of a constant battle with the part of me that desperately seeks approval.

The art supplies in that drawer are covered in dust. The amount of procrastination that proceeded my current drive to open an Etsy shop is EPIC. The quantity of files stuffed with story ideas far out numbers that of completed scripts, novels or short stories written.

I yearn to be creative EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY. And then fly to the kitchen for food, become obsessed with the dust bunnies under the bed, decide the cat looks lonely as she naps, grab the tv remote, or visit my yawning bank account online.

Anything to avoid the very thing I most want to do.

It’s not a pretty picture.

When I was a child, I wrote fairytales. The letters were backwards. Very little was spelled correctly. The stories were simplistic and usually involve unicorns. And I thought they were wonderful. I drew and painted and sculpted just to draw, paint and sculpt. Creating was A PLEASURE.

Because I wanted to EXPRESS. What? I’m not sure I even knew. I’m pretty confident it didn’t really matter. The moment was the reveal.

Then, at some point, everything changed. FEAR entered the picture. The need for approval. The need to not stand out, make waves, or get too noticed. The need to have a REASON for everything. The need to be BETTER THAN everyone else to be worthy at all. Competitiveness. Resentment. Jealousy. Procrastination. Money.

In the same way that dancing in front of the mirror and talking to my reflection while playing make-believe suddenly became an act of vanity, and then later an opportunity to pick myself apart and pinch the proof of my failings, making art transformed from being an act of pure joy to being not so far removed from a sin.

But I’m done. I’m 40 years old. Half my life (if I’m lucky) has passed. I want to be in communion with my true nature, with my creativity.

But the opponents are entrenched.

So, I’m changing tactics.

What is it they say? For every person called a terrorist, someone can be found who will claim her as a freedom fighter. While neatly (for the moment) side-stepping the socio-political implication of that statement, I must embrace its truth in regard to my approach to creativity. I think it’s time I terrorized myself a bit to ultimately gain creative freedom.

Put another way, I’m ready to walk through the fire and feel the pain of confronting fear, guilt, shame, and whatever else rears its ugly head as I commit to FOCUSED CREATIVITY for the next two weeks and beyond. Hell, maybe I’ll even dance to my reflection in front of the mirror.

What are you doing to embrace your true nature? And when was the last time you played with crayons? Up for some scribbling tonight?

“Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.” – Peter, Paul & Mary

My father put my brother and me to sleep each night by singing us folk songs. Lemon Tree is one of my favorites in my memory. It always transported me to another time and place. I was reminded of it again when I came upon David Smith-Harrison some months ago.

by David Smith-Harrison

His intaglio prints are gorgeous and haunting. The silhouettes of the trees, along with the architectural details he includes in his pieces, capture the starkness and romance of the Mediterranean. Having lived in that part of the world for almost two years, I’ve left a bit of my heart on its dry hills and along its stunning coasts. Some day, I will live there again.

"Cherry Tree" by David Smith-Harrison

In the meantime, evocative art and literature sooth the yearning.

I reread Bitter Lemons, by Lawrence Durrell, if I wish to recall the feel of a uniquely hot sun against barely-shaded white rocks or the sounds of devout old women bent double in their black shrouds as they curse young men who flirt without shame. The autobiographical book may be set in Cyprus – an island to which I’ve never been, and recounts life in the 1950’s – a time about which I know only through history, but it perfectly captures a spirit that still hovers over much of small-town Greece, Turkey, Lebanon, and Southern Italy.

I visit the Getty Villa when I want to remember what it feels like to delicately brush away centuries’ worth of dirt to reveal a fully-intact amphora, a still perfectly polished gold coin, or the alabaster head of one of David’s extended family that someone chose to use as a suitable brick in an ancient wall.

And I gather lemons.

by mewtate/flickr

I collect a few fresh specimen at the Farmers’ Market and retreat to my kitchen to cut and peel them, seeking their sharp aroma ad happy when their scent lingers in the air and on my fingertips. I squeeze their juices into a steaming cup of tea that accompanies a gorgeously gooey piece of fresh baklava from the Armenian bakery down the street.

It is, after all, not so impossible to eat the fruit of the poor lemon. The task is not for the faint of heart, of course, but it is worth it. Funny, isn’t it, how much of life is both bitter and sweet?

"Lemons" by David Smith-Harrison

What do you do to transport yourself to another time and place? Where do you go?

by Jean Baptiste Mondino

It has been raining for 40 days and 40 nights 6 days straight, so you will now have front seats to my complete unravelling. First, I start staring out the window in mid-conversation and try to count how many raindrops have hit the pavement. Then, I sink into the couch and engage in lengthy discourse with my cat. If the sun hasn’t made an appearance by then, my brain casts itself as a whirling Dervish and I am overcome by an urge to cut things up into little pieces. It is moments like this when I praise the farmers of the world for providing me bountiful heads of lettuce, brussel sprouts and zucchini. I drift into my kitchen and I begin chopping.

Blades THUNK into wood.

Green bits ferociously FLY.

My cat HIDES under the bed.

So therapeutic.

And I’m left with a finely minced vegetable medley. Nothing wrong with that.

What do you do to stave off the straight-jacket?

p.s. Check out Jean Baptiste Mondino’s work. Aside from the shot above, Slim Ladies No. 1 is my favorite of his photos.

Slim Ladies No. 1 by Jean Baptiste Mondino