The Art of Phlox

How could this sweet flower stir up such resistance?

My dad, Prairie Pa, and I like to go to green houses and buy flowers.  During our latest Flower Factory pilgrimage, he innocently suggested I buy some phlox to enhance my front flower bed.  I exploded - in a way that surprised both of us.  "PHLOX!  But I HATE phlox." 

A former in-law used to plant phlox.  (Actually I never saw her plant phlox, it was just there.  She liked plants that required no care.  Kind of like my neighbor.  Whenever something in her yard dies, she replaces it with a rock.)  The phlox was light purple and scraggly.  It lived its summer life crowded between hostas that needed to be divided and weeds that were never pulled.  

Because Prairie Pa can be very persuasive, I ended up buying some bright pink phlox (Who knew phlox came in different colors?) and planting it in front of my house.  Before putting the phlox in the soil, I stirred slow release fertilizer into the soil.  My pink phlox is pampered.  It is mulched, watered daily, and weeds aren't allowed to get too close.

Days passed and my anger towards an inculpable little flower continued to bother me.  As an almost English major, I chose to look at the phlox metaphorically.  Was the scraggly phlox a married, thirty-something me?  (Granted, it is a simple metaphor, but I have been out of college a long time.)  A style-less, voiceless young woman planted in the wrong place.  

A snack I would never make for my own children.

This was the point in my life when I wore twin sets, tiny earrings, and (gasp) slacks  I brought Jello molds to family functions even though I hated Jello.  (WAIT.  Scratch that.  I haven't always been a Jello hater.  Remember Knox Blox?  A great sugary snack that I would never make my kids.)

I remember thinking, Well this is how it is.  I make Jello molds I won't eat.  I wear slacks because I don't know what else to wear.  And I get most of my thoughts from Oprah (Some things never change).  I was driven by a sense of duty rather than joy.  

• I made lunches.
• I pushed strollers.
• I scrubbed floors.
• I nurtured everyone except me. (Which was the big mistake because I became a martyr.) 

Spoiler:  my marriage ended.  I was caught off guard.  Looking back, it shouldn't have surprised me.  Neither of us were being authentic.  One of us wanted to create art and soul search and one of us wanted to ride a motorcycle.  

Divorce is brutal.  Yes, it is very common, but that doesn't make it easy or a path that people want to walk down.  It was the death of a dream and a two parent household.  It was the death of "til death do us part".  I got through the divorce years with the help of wonderful friends and family.  

In case you know someone going through a divorce, here is a very partial list of how my friends and family helped me:

• letting me cry  - the ugly cry
• selling my old house and moving me and the kids into a new house
• watching my kids
• bringing me Starbucks
• looking at my bills and setting up a budget
• sending me cards
• reminding me to act with integrity and love
• showing me how to start a lawn mower
• telling me I was lovable and that I could move on
•  . . . and on and on 

Isn't it beautiful?

Perhaps my pink phlox is me now.   I am good with this metaphor. 

Prairie Eydie 

The Art of Practice

I have been continuing the journey of mixed media collage.  (If you missed my initial foray into mixed media, check out The Art of Getting Messy)  It is hard, y'all!  I am learning to embrace practice canvases.  Though, when I started, I was pretty sure I could skip the step of practicing and move right into creating super cool pieces.  Ahhh, the arrogance of the uninformed.  I have a stack of "Beyond Hope" canvases waiting to be carted away. Only one canvas made the cut of being "Kinda Okay Because I Really Need to Work on Mantra Stamping."

I just finished reading the Young Adult book,Vincent and Theo, by Deborah Heiligman.  The author drew on the numerous letters sent between Vincent and his younger brother, Theo, to write a moving, yet extremely depressing, novel.  (Fun fact:  Vincent sent approximately 600 letters to his brother.) Vincent spent most of his life practicing the art of color and striving to learn.  

Vincent forgot to eat and his teeth rotted out because he was so busy practicing.  Oblivious to social norms, Vincent roamed around in stinky clothes.  He simply spent all his time painting.  Theo was an art dealer and Vincent needed his brother's help to get his paintings noticed.  It took years of practice before Theo even considered putting Vincent's painting into his art gallery.  

So many lessons to be learned.  Here we go. . . 

• Self-care is always important.  No matter how far in love you have fallen with mixed media, or whatever, you still need to brush your teeth and do laundry.  This is especially important on humid summer days.  

My beloved college roommate had this print hanging in our apartment.  Which Van Gogh did you have hanging in your apartment?   

• Vincent never felt his art was "good enough" and always wanted to improve.  His years of frenzied painting made him, arguably, one of the most famous painters in modern history.  I mean, soon millions of college students will be tacking his paintings up in their dorm rooms.  Practice is necessary if you want to get good at things.  Writers write.  Painters paint.  Gardeners plant. 

• Maybe it isn't a good idea to base your livelihood solely on your brother's opinion.  It bothers me that Vincent relied so heavily on his brother's opinion.     

I need to invest in some spray paint.

Today I will continue my journey of dancing between paint and collage.  I will celebrate pieces that are good enough and toss aside practice canvases.  Being a tree hugger, I will also check out Pinterest for creative ideas of how to repurpose ugly canvases.  But first  . . breakfast.

Prairie Eydie 

PS - Don't recommend Vincent and Theo to your favorite 11 year old unless you are willing to explain syphilis, prostitutes, and brothels.  

Oh all right.  Here is the "good enough" canvas.

The Art of Getting Messy

Part of my summer's design was to take an on-line class. (If you missed my post on designing your summer, here it is - The Art of Designing Your Summer - AGAIN)  I signed up for Kelly Rae Robert's class, Mantra and Mixed Media.  

Section 1 of the class surrounded getting quiet and writing mantras.  This was hard due to kids, road construction, and a short attention span.  Eventually, through old fashioned journaling, I came up with some helpful mantras. My mantras were 6 words or less and not in the mountain top yogi league.  Here are some examples:

• Pause
• Trust the journey
• Permission Granted:  Create
• How free do you want to be?  (I went over the 6 word limit here, but it is SO good!  My dear friend passed this mantra on to me.  Now I am passing it on to you. Ask yourself this question when you are surrounded with clutter or negative friends or a boring book.  If you want to be free - get rid of the clutter, negativity, and the boring book.)

I was excited to finish getting all quiet and philosophical because Section 2 was when the paints and gel medium came out.  Kelly Rae, my encouraging on-line instructor, kept blathering on and on about giving yourself permission to be messy and to channel your inner 8 year old.  She also said to follow your curiosity.  I didn't think I would have a problem being messy because my house is constantly messy.  I can block out globs of toothpaste on the counter for days.  Wiping kitchen counters?  Only when I have the energy. Me and Mess hang out together.  I was so confident I wouldn't struggle with being messy, that I asked an actual 8 year old, my daughter, to join me in the studio.  HA!  Take that Kelly Rae.

The first painting lesson focused on 3 techniques - dripping, rolling, and smooshing paint.  The 8 year old started off all organized and rainbowed all the cool colors in front of her and all the warm colors in front of me.  I skipped the step of finding the vinyl tablecloth because it seemed like something my mother would insist on.  No biggie if paint got on the table, it would probably look cool.

We started with dripping - crossing our canvases with acrylics and spraying the paint with a water bottle.  The dripping process left muddled paint puddles on the table.  I kept my paint puddles relatively contained with a stack of napkins we found in our mini van's glove compartment.   (I also skipped the step of buying paper towels because I am a tree hugger.)   The 8 year old was dripping and spraying with abandon.  She had NO interest in the napkins and managed to sully the water IN the spray bottle.  The mess was causing me stress.

This is a brayer.  If you are painting with an eight year old, make sure to buy two brayers.

Rolling, with a brayer, was less messy and my stress level decreased.  The 8 year old had no problem mixing warm and cool colors.  Didn't she remember Kelly Rae telling us that this would result in muddy colors?  When I gently reminded her, she reminded me we were supposed to follow our curiosity.  HA!  Take that mom.  

New mantra - Permission granted:  Make a Mess.  Ignore Common Sense.

You probably saw this coming, but smooshing took the mess to  URGENT ALERT panic level.  Smooshing is a fun synonym for finger painting.  During the instructional videos, Kelly Rae wiped her hands on her apron.  Naturally, I skipped the step of buying aprons, so the 8 year old and I wiped our hands on the piles of used napkins.  

I couldn't take anymore when I noticed the 8 year old had streaks of paint running down her leg.  Lesson over.   I sent the 8 year old off to take a shower, after yelling at her to not touch anything with her filthy paws and to check the bottom of her feet to make sure her creativity wasn't being tracked through the house.  I was disappointed with myself.  When had I become such a drag?

Sigh.  Before our next painting session happens, I am ordering aprons, buying paper towels at Costco, and finding that damn vinyl table cloth.

Prairie Eydie

Oh all right.  Here is my canvas.  Don't judge.  I got curious about mixing warm and cool colors too.  

The Art of Rethinking

All teachers have that student.  The student you desperately want to be absent.  You compulsively check attendance on your computer.  Your heart flutters to see he is absent 1st hour.  Your mood improves when he is also absent 2nd hour.  Yahoo!  He still hasn't shown up 3rd hour.  The angel chorus is warming up.  Then the 4th hour tardy bell rings and he saunters through your door.  Ugh.

You feel anger towards his 1st, 2nd, and 3rd hour teaches.  Why did they escape him and you didn't?  You feel annoyed with the attendance secretary.  Why didn't she shoot you an email to warn you?  You might as well go home, your day is ruined.

Flaming Hot Cheetos rank 7th on my list of pet peeves, right after asking to use the restroom while I am giving directions.

What?  You don't recognize this student?  Here are some more details.  He is often chasing screeching girls and smudging your books with the red devil dust of Flaming Hot Cheetos.  He always has something unrelated to contribute.  For instance, if you are talking about antonyms, he is wondering about the stain on your ceiling.  If you are exploring theme, he is curious about your marital status.  Oh, this is also the student who falls asleep the second he is asked to open a book. 

I was so happy on the last day of school.

• No more uncontrollable attendance checking.
• No more red devil dust.
• No more anger swallowing.

Summer vacation - here I come!

Twenty plus days into my summer vacation, I went to a lake with my friends and kids.  Blue skies.  Raked sand.  Lazy lapping waves.  All was blissful, until . . . I looked up from my book and saw that student.

There he was, trudging through the sand towards me.  Wearing a red t-shirt, black gym shorts, and his beloved Jordans.  (Dear Lord, have mercy on me!  I survived the month of May with him.  Is there no justice?)  I prayed he wouldn't spot me.  I wrapped a beach towel several times around my neck and firmly pushed up my sunglasses.  

Hmm.  He wasn't walking toward me, rather towards a little girl playing in the sand.  She had been filling a pail with sand and repeatedly dumping it out.  

My student squatted in the sand next to the girl.  (I couldn't believe he was getting his Jordans sandy.  He was always wasting my hand sanitizer and Kleenex to get the smudges off his pristine, white shoes.)  He showed the girl how to fill the pail with sand, tamp it down, and tip it over to leave a perfectly formed mound of sand.  I watched as they slowly built a fortress of sand around them.  How had I ever dreaded this adorable boy?  A boy who would play in the sand so sweetly with a little girl. 

Walking back to my car, I didn't look back.  I wanted to keep the vision of that student playing in the sand intact, until September when I will see him again.

Prairie Eydie