Thursday, October 30, 2008

La Joie du Temps Libre

Je suis fatiguée aujourd’hui mais c’est pour une très bonne raison ! J’ai bien complété un projet d’art ce matin à six heures. J’ai eu l’im - pression que je ne le finirais jamais parce que j’ai passé plus de huit semaines sur cette sculpture. Mais comment je me suis éclatée avec le résultat! Ce n’est pas assez souvent, ces jours, que je fais de l’art seulement pour moi-même.

Je crée des sculptures avec plusieurs matières mais typiquement, j’emploie des fragments de verre, du plâtre et des photos. Je suis connue, à Paris, pour mon style moderne et vivant et j’ai vendu plus de trente sculptures. En général, je vends mes œuvres aux collecteurs.


Ils me connaissent et ils me téléphonent deux ou trois fois chaque année pour me demander s’il y a un nouveau bébé dans mon atelier.

Je fais mes sculptures dans mon appartement. Il est l’endroit où j’habite et où je travaille. Je l’ai choisi parce qu’il est très grand, le 6e étage entier de l’immeuble. C’est parfait pour moi, parce que je ne suis pas obligé de m’habiller si je n’ai pas envie de le faire. Je peux passer toute la nuit avec mes sculptures si je veux et ça ne dérange personne.

Il y a des jours quand je me pince parce que ma vie est vraiment comme un rêve. Mais non, ma vie est exactement comme je l’ai imaginée. C’est possible que si on a des espoirs, on puisse les réaliser.


Ce n’était pas toujours comme ça.


J’ai toujours aimé créer l’art mais je n’ai jamais cru q’un jour, il y aurait les gens qui voudraient les acheter. Depuis que j’ai eu l’age de 18 ans, j’ai travaillé dans un café pendant la journée pour payer les factures et pendant la nuit, j’ai fait de l’art dans mon tout-petit appartement. J’ai détesté cette vie, mais c’était nécessaire pour cinq ans.


Quand j’avais 23 ans, j’ai été invitée à participer dans une exposition de la sculpture dans une petite galerie de voisinage. Le propreitaire de la galerie a souvent mangé dans le café ou je travaillais et, de temps en temps, on a parlé de ma ‘vraie’ vie. J’ai connu beaucoup d’artistes et ensemble, on a organisé des fêtes où nous nous montrions nos pièces.


Un jour, j'ai pris mon courage à deux mains et je l’y ai invité et après ça, c’est un conte de fées! Il a adoré mes sculptures et il m’a offert une place dans sa galerie pour trois de mes pièces. Pendant la première, une dame d’un certain age les a vue.


Elle a achète tous les trois dans un seul coup, et voilà, le lendemain, j’ai quitte mon boulot. Je suis devenue artiste, peintre et sculptrice. Simplement comme ça.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Finding My Spot

This is Xena. Not Xena the Warrior Princess, but Zena Snowflake. Sometimes, lovingly, she is also known as The Sausage. Her favorite activities include riding the dryer and making bold and vigorous attempts at scratching the couch. She always appears to be incredibly self satisfied after what seems to be at least 25 solid minutes of this activity. I let her do it; she doesn't have any claws.

She doesn't seem to realize that, though.

Before I write a full personal ad for this cat, who, really, has little interest in boy cats, I'll admit that I envy Xena's existence at times. She lives an extremely cushy life, doing whatever she feels like doing, whenever she feels like doing it. She seems generally content, nary an existential crisis has clouded her day. I believe this is because she has found her spot in life. She never needs to mentally prepare herself to take a nap in the sun. She doesn't ever procrastinate on any of her various cat tasks -- she simply gets them finished in her own good time and enjoys herself in the process.


She has become my mentor. I've been following her around, taking notes. Asking questions. It is obvious that she appreciates the fact that I have finally come to my senses and noticed her for the sage that she is. I'm certain that at some point in the very near future, I'll be required to compensate her in some way for her instructional services. Good thing tuna was on sale this week at the grocery store; I stocked up.


What I want to know from her is how to maintain this easy come easy go approach to life. Why is it that I need an entire week off to simply arrive in the brain space where my mental faucet will bring water immediately once turned? An entire week to get to this place where I can sit, do, plot, plan, make, create, write, photo, zibzabberydoo on demand, at will!, and tomorrow, I have to return to work. How do I keep the faucet at this level of preparedness?

Ugh. It is the Return To Work Malaise.

Xena just yawns. Stretches. Rolls over. Looks at me. I guess enlightenment will not be happening today.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Bienvenue, Ségolène

De temps en temps, je publie des histoires d'une femme qui habite dans un monde parallèle. Ces contes merveilleux se passent à Paris ou cette dame habite en ce moment. J’ai crée cette série, au début, pour un cours de français que j’ai suivi. Á la fin, je ne suis pas prête à la laisser tomber. Donc, voila, on commence avec le premier chapitre.


Le Premier Jour

J’ai décidé d’écrire un journal intime puis que j’ai récemment déménagé dans un nouvel apparte - ment. Je m’appelle Ségolène Legrand et j’ai 45 ans mais tous mes amis pensent que je suis beaucoup plus jeune que ça. Peut-être que c’est parce que je ne fais pas les choses comme les autres femmes qui ont le même âge.

J’ai une vie assez intéressante comme je suis une artiste qui adore les nuites blanches. Je fais la peinture et aussi la sculpture mais c’est très difficile pour moi de les faire pendant la journée. Bien, voilà, c’est pour cette raison que je ne dors pas comme une femme typique. Je passe presque toute la nuit avec mes idées et mes travaux.

De temps en temps, j’invite mes amis chez moi pour l’inspiration. Ce n’est pas ma faute si les soirées ne commencent pas avant minuit – c’est la vie d’une artiste, n’est pas ?

Je pense que j’ai un style propre et assez joli. Mes cheveux sont longs, très longs, juste à ma taille. Ils sont presque toujours tressés parce que c’est plus simple de l’avoir comme ça. Ils sont noirs, très noirs, la couleur de la nuit sans les étoiles ou d’un grand piano de concert. J’ai des yeux verts, très verts, la couleur de graminée ou la mer sur les îles tropiques. Je suis assez grande, comme mon nom de famille, presque 1.6 mètres.

Je ne porte pas souvent mes chaussures, mais quand je les ai portés, je préfère les escarpins avec les hauts talons.

Presque toujours, je porte une tunique avec des caleçons. J’adore, aussi, les chapeaux. J’ai une collection de presque 500 chapeaux parce que ma meilleure amie est modiste. Elle fait les beaux chapeaux spécialement pour moi et tous que j’en ai sont originaux. Je ne me maquille pas beaucoup, mais j’utilise un crayon du contour pour mes yeux. J’aime, aussi, des rouges à lèvres éclatantes.

J’habite toute seule dans mon nouvel appartement, en fait, pas exactement toute seule. J’adore les oiseaux inséparables; j’ai cinq paires de ces créatures mignonnes. J’espère que mes voisins vont les adorer comme je les adore, mais sinon, c’est dommage. Elles sont comme mes enfants et c’est vrai, je parle avec mes oiseaux parce qu’elles aiment la conversation.

Je n’ai pas un mari ni un fiancé et ça marche bien pour moi. Je peux manger ce que je veux quand je veux et je fais ce que je veux quand je veux. Je me suis presque marié avec quelqu’un il y a dix ans, mais j’ai changé d’avis et je crois que c’était la meilleure décision de ma vie. En ce moment, je sors souvent avec un homme qui j’aime beaucoup. En fait, j’ai trois hommes qui j’aime beaucoup, et j’imagine qu’un jour je vais peut-être obliger d’en choisir.

Mais pas encore.


Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Sculpture Tuesday





While I am traveling, I tend to spend most of my time actually traveling. The proof of the trip comes later, as memories. I've been thinking, lately, about some stunning sculptures that I saw over the summer. In June, I spent a long afternoon in the National Archeology Museum of Athens. Yes, Athens, Greece.

As someone who never tires of the magic of sculpture, this place delighted me. Sculpture is bold. The curator of this portion of the museum understood that the lifelikeness of these pieces would be best appreciated against the stark contrast of color. Since I haven't been feeling particularly lifelike in recent days, I've been in search of sources of delight. I find myself returning to these photos and that afternoon and am the happier for it. Who says that most travel photos are never seen again?

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Unappreciated Philosopher

It is high time we explore the genius that is Timbaland. I know, you're probably wondering why it so imperatively needs to happen at this precise moment. Is understanding Timbaland going to help us to solve our current Apocalyptic Financial Meltdown of Doom? Probably not. Has Timbaland created a new source of alternative fuel, the details of which are to be found in one of his collaborations with another Very Powerful Pop Star? Clearly. Will combing through his lyrical stylings help undecided voters to finally make up their minds in this very critical US election? Well, I won't rule that out just yet. It will definitely entertain me for the next 15 minutes, and, really, that is the only rationale that I need.



It is useful to realize that for our analysis, we will only be examining songs where Timbaland is featured. While this great philosopher has made some of his own music, his best pearls don't seem to be found there.

Consider the following:

I'm out a time and all I got is 4 minutes. Jicka Jicka. FOUR MINUTES!

JICKA JICKA!

Break down.

JICKA JICKA!

Listen for that in this song:



But wait, some of his more infleuntial sounds are in this video:



It's been a long time, we shouldn't of left you, without a dope beat to step to.
Breecka Breecka, baby girl, UH!

BREECKA BREECKA!

I suppose what it really boils down to is this: I like Timbaland's little nonsensical noises. They make me laugh. I wish I could hire him to walk around with me, all day long, and when I would give him the special signal, he would make one of those sounds. It would be punctuated by that eye rolling thing that he does.



That gets me every time. Jicka Jicka. Baby girl, UH!

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Today's Forecast


The Tractor Speaks

I don’t like this grasshopper body.
I’m constant, I tremble, others use me,
a slave of the land. I tear open and lay flat.
Through me runs a shaft of painful, serene
transmission. It’s hard to drag
a cow to its grave. I’ve already injured
a leg. I hate the weight of the trailer.
Five years and I still don’t understand these
grimy parts that turn inside me.
At least the power shovel roars
(I love her). Scrap iron makes me shudder.

© 1978, António Osório
© Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Magnificent Moments of the Mundane

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I walk, in the early morning, from the corner of 4th Avenue and University to the Education Building on the U of A campus. If you come out and watch as I perform this amazing activity (I manage to do it without an Ipod!) -- I'll tell you all about the thoughts with which I entertained myself as I drove down I-10 en route to putting my car in the same parking place that seems to always be available, as though it were expecting me.

If you prefer, I'll narrate the route for you, as we stroll. I might be wearing shoes. Maybe not. You'll likely be impressed with the black leatheriness of my feet. Maybe not. You may suggest that the application of a belt sander will be the only way to return my soles to a state more closely resembling humanity. I likely will tell you that I prefer my feet to remain as hooves, able to successfully traverse any terrain.


You may remove your shoes, just to show off your own perfectly manicured toes and heels, in an attempt to convince me of the merits of your argument. I'll praise their beauty but quietly feel sorry for their softness. You would never be able to walk from the front door of my house to the mailbox without third degree burns, let alone walk barefoot along 15 downtown blocks because you have a blister; you would suffer the pain of your shoes instead. You'd have to. Nope, I'll shake my head to myself, this person, they may never be able to fully live here, with their fancy city feet. All the same, though, we can still walk together, in a grand demonstration of bi-partisanship: the rough heeled hand-in-hand with the genteel heeled.


Perhaps you have to go to work and can't walk with me on these mornings. Maybe you live far, far away, and walking with me would cost several hundred dollars to arrange. You just don't have the money to do it right now, but, how you wish you did. Perhaps you've walked with me before, but never at this particular time or along this particular route and you.just.know that it would be worth it, but, sadly, you just can't this time.

For you, wisher and hoper, I have created the.almost.like.being.here.experience. It will be as though you are here, walking with me. Well, almost.

We'll meet here:

I'll be waiting for you inside Epic Cafe. I'll have already ordered a slice of pie and a medium coffee. It won't be fancy, just plain coffee: lots of half and half and a fistful of sugar since I like it crunchy. You'll probably order a muffin. Maybe a scone. Pie, for you, is just not a breakfast food.

Muffin in hand, you'll look around. Where is she? Oh, over there, by the window. Come on over, I saved you a place.

I'll be watching the sidewalk sitters, who meet on the southwest corner of 4th Avenue every day. I'll tell you all about them. The pirate guy who always wears a bandanna on his head, tied over his right ear, in just such a way that his golden hoop earring is showcased. You'll ask about that circus tattooed ladywoman in the prairie dress. Everyone seems to know her! Is she famous? I'll smile at you and nod. Yes, she is dating Metalhead, that man who is wearing a hat made from hundreds of soda pop tabs, who is also out there. He never sits; he prefers to stand by his bicycle while he drinks his chai tea. You'll wonder how I know his hot beverage preferences and I'll wink at you, 'Everyone knows Metalhead only drinks chai.'

'I feel like a regular here!' You'll proclaim, as you tidy up the last of the crumbs on the table. 'Metalhead likes chai! I know that now!' You'll stand, excited to walk. We'll leave and you'll wave to the sidewalk sitters. They'll cheer and wave back. You'll feel so accepted.

We point ourselves east. You begin to notice the many cats that appear on the sidewalk. You wonder how I know so many of their names. I wouldn't want to ruin that magic for you, so I'll just shrug as you ohh and ahh. All part of the tour. No extra charge.

We'll pass Time Market. There'll be hipsters on the patio. They'll be pretending to read Henry James or Herman Melville or David Eggers novels, making an obvious point of not noticing us. They'll be drinking Naked Juice or peeling hard boiled eggs. They might be blogging on their laptops or going old skool, using a legal pad and a fountain pen to take down their painfully bored observations. You'll admire their cowboy shirts and their 100 % natural hemp messenger bags as we pass by.

The next few blocks are the most beautiful, lined by tremendous craftsmen homes, their porches overflowing with flowering pots and old mesquite trees.

It is in looking into these tucked away porches that I invent the best stories for you. You'll interrupt me and ask, 'Is that a row boat in that front yard?' And, is that a bathtub? With claw feet?' We are quiet now, as we walk slowly. You are curious about what you would find in their back yards. I can see that you are realizing the reason I take this walk has little to do with efficiency or frugality and more with the sense of this place. The dragging pepper tree branches faintly drawing lines on the sidewalk, the aging stucco crumbling from these homes, their corners hidden in shadow, the sagging clothesline holding a single sock-- can this really be in the middle of a city, in the middle of a desert? This isn't how you had imagined it. It is better.

Once we cross Euclid Avenue, you are no longer impressed. This is a cultivated place of commercialism that has nothing to do with the walk. I see you glance over your shoulder, hoping we will return to the lapse that was behind us. How was it possible to move through four blocks in such a few minutes but for the slowness of it?


We have started something now, haven't we? A routine. I see that you'll be walking with me three times each week. We won't talk the next times. Though I do wonder: what happened to your shoes?

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Greensleeves: My Favorite Song


I attended one of the best concerts of my entire life this evening, though no famous rock bands were on the stage. Just a bunch of 7th and 8th grade kids, dressed in hep cat hats and shades, playing jazz in a way that made me want to pick up the old flugelhorn again and do my best Chuck Mangione.



Yeah, I said Chuck Mangione. I was certainly the only high school girl I ever met who even knew about this guy, let alone considered herself a fan. A big fan. Chuck, though, he was just the beginning, the gateway musician who introduced me to the chops of Clifford Brown:



Oh, I wanted to play like that guy. But only if I could have Dizzy Gillespie's horn. And his crazy cheeks.



Don't even get me started on Buddy Rich. That guy's style opened the door to my future in the drumline, wherein I found a.whole.new.level of geekdom.



Or, wow, when I heard Louis Armstrong for the first time? Swoon. Double Swoon. I actually cried when I found out that he had died a full five years before I was born, which meant that I would never have the chance to see him play live.



I've never heard another trumpeter play in such a way where the great time that they were obviously having actually came through the bell of their horn.

In junior high, we generally played the standards. Songs that everyone knew. Everyone. Even my grandpa, who seemed to know every song ever performed by Gene Autry but claimed that music died with him, would hum along in recognition as I would practice every night.

While I was first chair of the trumpet section, I was introduced to the single greatest piece of music ever written (or so I thought at the time): Stars and Stripes Forever. How did Sousa know how to do that? I connected Sousa the man to Sousa the musician and asked my parents to buy for me not only his entire discography for my birthday, but his biography, too, because I needed to know. I loved the way that I felt as I played those notes that he had written. Connected to the universe in a way that was heady and new and quite addicting. It was as though that music wasn't just processed by my ears -- my entire body felt those notes. I wanted more.

Playing music in junior high band made me wonder, for the first time, why most music that I heard on the radio didn't make me feel that way. Yet *that* music was often the impetus that prompted most kids to join school band -- they had big dreams that one day they would be able to play music like that. I wanted no part of it. Real music wasn't the synthesized junk food of the 1980's; it was to be found in the older compositions. The ones that most of my classmates, outside of the small circle of knowing hep cats in band, had never heard. Or if they had, found to be boring. Music for old people and nerds, they would say.



There was a moment, during this concert, in which I knew that the kids on stage were experiencing the exact same feeling of discovery. As some of the crowd so rudely got up to leave mid-performance, a quick game plan discussion was prompted between the students and the director about cutting out one or two songs. Several of the students excitedly stood their ground, 'But we HAVE to play 'A Train,' Sir, we.have.to!'

And, triumphantly, they played on.