Indiana’s Statehouse Isn’t All That Bad.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Indiana Statehouse

I nearly “blew off” that day. I just knew the day before me was about to be excruciatingly awkward. Normally, I’d choose spending time on my passional job—my fine artwork. But this early spring day, I didn’t want to take the time away from my professional job. As a visual communications art director and designer, I didn’t want to leave co-workers with my work for that day. Or was it something else keeping me away? After a little back-and-forth bickering with Mister Whitesell, we headed down to our state’s capital, Indianapolis.

After all, the Lieutenant Governor was expecting a painting from me.

Now, unless you’ve lived without a television, internet, or simply have your head buried in the ground, I’m sure you’ve heard the Indiana hub-bub. Indiana’s experienced a couple of complicated few weeks after Governor Mike Pence signed Indiana’s RFRA bill into law. (If you stumbled upon my blog post assuming I may rehash any faux pas—which occurred on both sides—then you’ll be disappointed.) I realized I was expected at the Indiana Statehouse the one day separating the State Senate passing the bill and the day before Pence was to sign the bill into law behind closed doors. Imagine the anxiety an artist might feel.

When it comes to art and politics, we artists either tackle politics head-on or we retreat from the subject altogether. I fall into that latter category of artists. Politics isn’t something I project in my art, and nothing I’m willing to conversate visually in my artwork. The idea of being shoved into that bureaucratic (and potentially hostile) environment. Before I had made the trek to Indianapolis, I broke out in a case of hives. My mind raced. I couldn’t grasp any vision short of screaming protestors, disdained politicians, and gray-haired, white men in suits surrounding me. Ack! Anxiety!

After arriving, we parked and walked the labyrinth of staircases, tunnels, escalators, and hallways. In that maze somewhere, we were scanned as if we were going through security at an airport. Every state trooper and state security worker were nothing short of helpful and friendly. A few were jokesters. I wasn’t expecting that.

Under my arm, I had a painting of mine titled, “The Culmination of Amy.” In one hand, I held my purse and a water bottle. On my back was a camera case strapped to me like a pack mule. I looked at my phone and realized I had a solid hour-and-a-half to kill before the awards program started. I delivered my painting to the Lieutenant Governor’s office. I still thought that I’d have a television anchor surprise me and ask me about my views on IRFRA. Eggshell walking endured.

It was 12:30pm and the Hoosier Women Artist program wasn’t to start until 2pm. So Mr. Whitesell and I decided to take a walking tour of the Statehouse. Before our tour started, I found myself staring up at the rotunda.

Looking up at the Indiana Statehouse’s Rotunda

The dome overhead had the most mesmerizing cobalt blues with a gorgeous cadmium yellow center. Just underneath the dome, eight female figures carved from Italian Carrara marble, represents Indiana virtues: law, oratory, commerce, agriculture, liberty, justice, history, and my favorite gal who represented art.

Statue of Art

The tour began; we learned the ornamental embellishments needed restoring. These decorative detail paintings throughout added character in the style of 1886—the year they built the statehouse. The state even utilized the skills of Herron School of Art students and professors. (Oddly, the jurying of the Hoosier Women Artists were selected by Herron School of the Art Professor and panel.) I relished in the architectural oddities of the marble columns. The third floor columns had ionic capitals, and yet the second floor were Corinthian capitals.

Continuing the tour, the array of folks landed in the House of Representatives Chamber. I honestly forgot I was standing in the room where bills are contemplated, passed or denied. And with the hives from earlier and anxiety flipping throughout my torso, how was that so? Easily. My eyes rested upon, digested and interpreted an amazing image above the bench within that room. The only half-political thought that entered my noggin as I walked away was, “how does anyone accomplish work when this amazing, mid-century mural is the focus of the front of the room?” Commerce, agriculture, industrialization, education, history, liberty, and art; the themes continue.

“The Spirit of Indiana” by Eugene F. Savage

 

We toured a bit more, through the Senate Chamber, the State Judiciary Hall, and soon we realized needed to be on another floor. (Oh yeah, that reception thing…cue stress-induced asthmatic attack.) Upon tromping through the corridors, we stumbled upon yes, more art. The makeshift, temporary gallery walls aligned the halls with colorful, raw-emotion-filled honesty. Children’s art. The introductory graphics informed visitors that elementary through high school children had their work displayed at the Indiana Statehouse for National Art Month. I imagined being a child at that moment. What an amazing feat to be in grade school and know that your art was hanging for nearly 1000 visitors a week to see it. Let me tell you, there is some crazy talent nipping at our heels—just ready to take over the world with their artwork. Putting myself in those artsy kiddos shoes was the most inspiring feeling to dwell on for just a few minutes. 

Indiana Children’s Artwork

 

Hoosier Women Artists. It was peculiar that the jurying panel selected me as one of this amazing group of women artists. There were fourteen of us—just under 10% of those entered—to represent Women in Arts Month. This honor given went to smattering of different women. Varying ages, races, and even different heights were noticeable. 

Fourteen Hoosier Women Artists, 2015

But politics? Not one uttering of politics—still.

After some snapshots of the entire group, we were welcomed indulge in the light refreshments and then make our way to the seating. As I found my way to a chair, I stopped one of the artists, and we chatted about her work.  Everywhere, I encountered friendly faces eager to talk art!

One-by-one, each female artist was called up to the podium and was handed her award by the Lieutenant Governor, Sue Ellspermann. Per usual, having a last name at the end of the alphabet can assure that I’ll be called nearly last. This day, I was at the end of the list. The one thing I noticed was the way the Lieutenant Governor read the title to my piece. She read it as a question: “Lynette K. Waters-Whitesell with The Culmination of…Amy?”

Lt. Governor Sue Ellspermann and I

Once all artists’ hands were shook and certificates handed out, Ms. Ellspermann visited each artist one at a time. I watched as she made her way around the room, discussing each woman’s artwork which would soon hang on the walls in her office. How refreshing to see so many ladies chatting about their inspirations, their methods, and their concepts along with approach to all fourteen works. The Lt. Governor was honestly interested in the work. Sure, she would eventually become acquainted with each work since they will hang in her office for the duration of a year. But she wanted to hear each of our stories. 

Discussion with Lt. Gov. Sue Ellspermann about my artistic approach and methods.

And that questioning tone Ms. Ellspermann had in her voice when announcing my work? We had an amazing chat about the storyline and voice behind this particular piece.  After telling Ms. Ellspermann about how Blackford County had a considerable elevated cancer level and statistics in comparison to the rest of the state, she became interested in my concerns. It wasn’t politics. It was care for her fellow human. By this time in the day, the cynicism and fear of gutless politics had left my mind. Ms. Ellsperman asked if I had family or friends with cancer. I mentioned a few but didn’t dwell long on those loved ones. But in a moment, she lit up and said, “ah, Amy. The Culmination of Amy.” We connected. She understood. She didn’t know Amy, but she knew someone who could have been Amy, or someone who represented Amy in her life. We all know an Amy.

I gained ten times what I believed I could. An open mind (and more than a few reminders from the Mister that “this day is about art”) gave me inner peace to enjoy the day. One of my dear friends (and ironically, a former politician) would say to me “stand tall!”  I could stand tall. No more hives, no assumed asthma attacks, and no anxious jitters.

And yes, the chaos of politics would spill-over into the next day and following weeks, but my experiences on Wednesday, March 25, 2015 were of support, inspiration and understanding. Oh, and everywhere, there was art.

________________________________________________________________________________

For more information on cancer in Indiana, click here: http://indianacancer.org  Also, if you want specific county’s statistics, you can find a list of counties listed and click to find those stats in a pdf. et al: http://indianacancer.org/resources/blackford.pdf

For additional information about the architecture of the Indiana Statehouse in the Renaissance Revival style, go here: http://www.in.gov/idoa/2431.htm  And if you’re curious about the Hoosier Women Artists, click here: http://goo.gl/HAeh6r

Go Ahead. Make My Day.

When others don’t play by the Golden Rule, I positively pay-it-forward.

The Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.” I’m pretty sure we learned this in kindergarten. Simpler terms: Would you want to be treated the way you’re treating another?

I’m not talking about a curator’s commentary,  peer critique, commissioner’s disappointment; I set that aside knowing art is subjective. Obviously, I didn’t tap into that one person’s “vision.”

However, sometimes there’s purposeful pain from another person. Just downright meanness. Hateful words online, getting flipped off by a road raged driver, someone bites your head off. I used to allow the hostility dissolve my entire day. I would attempt distraction.

I would try to distract my thoughts:

• I would listen to upbeat music. My go-to is usually some bouncy Motown, like the Temptations. If I can’t cheer myself up with Motown—and I’m still on the cusp of bawling— then I head right for Led Zeppelin. Palate cleansing music.
• When my crushed spirit wants me to replay that crappy moment, I’ve trained my brain to yell “NO!” at my heart. These are the times it’s good to not listen to your (Sorry, Roxette.)
• Relish in—I call it “rolling around with”—those who love me. Lean on your mate, have coffee with your best friend or call your Mom. Someone who invests in you will usually distract your mind.

I still do those things, but now, I’ve combined my positively pay-it-forward initiative. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I can’t stick to self-imposed lifestyle shifts. I’m a gypsy soul. I would rather be in-studio painting than running on a treadmill. But this year, I attempted an idea that wasn’t strenuous or unattainable.

My resolution is this: When “the meanies” in this world hurt your feelings, you turn it around to two (or more) people. Are you thinking, “…that doesn’t sound like the Golden Rule!” Well, it really is the Golden Rule. Hang with me here:

When someone hurts, upsets, yells, defriends, cuts you off in traffic or is just an everyday jackass, hijack your feelings back! Don’t wait for someone to turn your frown upside-down for you. Do something thoughtful for two (or more!) persons. One person represents the repair you need (although you may never experience the apology you deserve.) The second person represents the Golden Rule, or how you want others to treat you. Here’re a few suggestions:

• A handwritten note is the easiest and costs you less than a half-dollar. I send a lot of post. Writing a decent note and sending through the US post service is becoming a dying art form, honestly. But I can tell you that there is nothing like being on the receiving end of that card. I like to send memories to my friends via post. “Remember that time we dressed in togas in high school and you tried to give me a swirly?! Remind me why the hell you were wearing a Friday, the 13^th goalie mask?” kind of memories. (Love you, Jen.) You know that person put some thought, time, energy into attempting to make you smile.
• A phone call to someone you haven’t spoken to in a while. Imagine the surprising happiness on the other end of the phone.
• A small gift could turn around another’s day. Maybe you place your co-worker’s favorite candy bar or his or her desk. Perhaps you call up a mentor you’ve meant to thank for quite some time and offer to take him or her to lunch. I don’t believe you have to spend money to make-up for your hurt feelings, but sometimes an invitation to lunch is exactly what is needed to get that friend to sit down with you.
• Send a text to a few friends will always help. So you’re a millennial, and you have no idea what post Go through your phone. Pick out a couple folks and tell them how blessed you are that you’ve been friends for years. Send your dad an unexpected “I love you, Dad. Just wanted you to know.” Or send an invitation to that one person who makes you split your gut, “Girl, we need to get together soon so you can make me laugh. I need your smile.”

Compliment someone’s new haircut, high-five a co-worker,  play Frisbee with your dog—or the neighbor’s dog, buy a bag of wrapped candy and sprinkle it around the office, send balloons for to your kid to school, grab a $5 gift card and send it to someone, take soup to your elderly neighbors, make a simple craft like a bookmark with a motivational saying for the bookworm in your life, tell someone to keep the change, buy a cup of coffee for a stranger… Bottom line: Make someone smile. 

Let me share my favorite positively paid-forward experience: I was waiting in line at the grocery checkout, and a little boy in front of me kept picking up candy bars. He wasn’t doing anything but holding them for a bit, and putting them back. He was completely quiet, not a spoiled monster screaming for the candy. His frazzled momma was attempting to load her groceries onto the conveyor belt and settle a toddler at the same time. I opened my billfold and handed the little guy two dollars. Of course, he didn’t take my money. His good momma had taught him better, but as I squatted down to speak with him, she had turned around to make sure her son was ok. This mom looked at me as if I was insane. (I’m glad no one yelled “STRANGER DANGER!”) I finally said to her, “I’d like to buy him a candy bar if it’s ok with you. I’ve had a rough day and could use a kid’s smile.” I got three smiles that day: the cashier, the mom, and the little boy. I have no idea what ruined my day, but I can tell you what made my day.

Mailing post is just one of the ways I reach out to Positively Pay-It-Forward. Here are some surprise envelopes headed to those who will help me let go of “the meanies.”

If you apply this positively pay-it-forward initiative to your life, I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments below or email me info(at)lynettewhitesell.com.

You choose your mess

I’ve been sketching, thinking, gel-mediuming (yes, I just made that up,) watching, wishing, transferring, adhering, painting, soaking, repainting, cussing, sealing, waiting, crying, redoing, repainting and cursing for weeks upon weeks lately.

In those multiple weeks, I’ve stared at eleven cradled panels (and at 16″ x 12″ they’re much larger than my usual 4″ x 4″ size) and a violin (yes, a violin.) All have been cluttering my house along with materials strung about. Three panels have been delivered to a gallery. One needs delivered this coming weekend. Many need photographed. This violin has continued to keep haunting me, but it’s off my plate now.

And that aforementioned pile hanging over my head is at least five canvases less from a few months ago when I was thrown under the proverbial bus for a fundraiser…but I digress.

As I was looking over this “pile” of in-the-process of drying panels, I thought to myself, “Man, I’m a mess.”

These panels are a mess, my subject matter is a mess, these new Pebeo paints have been a (happy accidental) mess, and of course my house is a mess. The beauty of acknowledging my messes is that I also find beauty in said messes. My clothes are a brilliantly-stained mess, my palettes are an colorfully-experimental mess, and even the panels are an interesting mess.

I’m blessed that my family encourages my messes. I can recall my late-Mamaw saying to me during my art college days, “Lyn, after you’re life is over, no one who misses you will say, ‘I wish she would have washed more dishes. I wish she would have mopped more floors, or did more laundry. No, they’ll wish for more of your artwork.'”

So I’ll keep making messes. I’ll continue to be a walking mess. I embrace the mess.

And as much as I’m in over my head in messes, I still love this artistic soul-searching process. There’s no reason for me to fret the beauty of a mess.

Sharing the Abyss with Robin

“What some folks call impossible, is just stuff they haven’t seen before.”
~Chris Nielsen as portrayed by Robin Williams. (What Dreams May Come, 1998)
____________________________

What Dreams May Come—derived from the book with the same name was written by Richard Matheson. This movie is about the Nielsen family who loses, two children in a car crash. Annie, the mother (played by Annabella Sciorra) and the father, Chris (played by Robin Williams) have a tumultuous year attempting to stay together because of the deep, dark depression that swallowed his wife Annie.

Just a year after the Nielsen’s lost their children, Chris (Robin’s character) is killed in a second car accident, trying to help save others.

After losing her entire family, Annie cannot take any more, and commits suicide—all the while, her husband Chris is watching from heaven above, and can’t do anything to stop her.

The rest of the movie is about who Chris Nielsen meets in heaven, and how he can retrieve his wife, Annie, from hell—or can he?

What Dreams May Come

 

Not an upbeat, comedic movie that Mr. Williams is known for, but it’s by and far one of my favorite roles he ever played. It was the realism of the roles and the impressionism of the set that captured me.  (As a side note, the visual effects won an Oscar for Best Visual Effects—and rightly so.)

I could totally relate to Annie. No, I hadn’t lost my children in a car accident, thank God. But there were other similarities that her character and I shared. Annie was an artist, a painter. And Annie was in (what I call) the dark abyss, more commonly known as depression. I reflected it against my life: two amazingly awesome children, and a wonderful husband who would undoubtedly give his live for another (at that time, my husband was even a volunteer firefighter.)

What also resonated in me was how beautiful heaven was in this movie. I had never seen anything like it, but if I was to have heaven “my way,” it would be much like Richard Matheson, Ronald Bass and Vincent Ward put on-screen. Heaven was so brilliantly amazing – and looked much like an impressionistic painting. Robin’s character would slide down the Monet-esque painted landscape and just laugh and laugh. It was a genuinely beautiful portrayal. I also loved that the first heavenly greeter was his beloved dog who you come to realize had died before.

The beauty of heaven—in paint form, and the deep, dark abyss. Those two subjects reflect in my artwork. I have battled the same abyss that Annie (in the movie,) and Robin (in life battled.) I’m not ashamed to speak about it or share my condition with others. If we keep quiet about this disease, more people may die. We must help people to understand depression. It’s no different from asthma or diabetes. It’s a disease.

What I’ve been contemplating is how many folks—who have not dealt with any form of depression—wants you to “snap out of it,” or let you know it’s all in your head. I’m sure those same folks wouldn’t say those phrases to those suffering with diabetes or cancer. If the ailment is physical, we all grasp the pain. If it’s a mental illness — Ah! You’re insane!

Yeah, Crazies. Many artists are considered “crazy.” Did you know three out of four creatives (artists of all forms) suffer from depression? Chances are there’s many more famous people who battle depression—not just the late Robin Williams.

Be Compassionate.

Earlier today on Facebook, I described depression and contemplating taking one’s life as such: It’s very difficult to explain why you don’t want to exist when you have a beautiful and loving family, great job, decent art and awesome friends… But none of the aforementioned is a culprit or cause, they’re innocent by-standers.

It also pisses me off when folks mention “cowardice” or “selfishness.” The depressed person DID think of those closest to them. That same depressed person believes the masses would be better off without them. They concern their self with loved ones who won’t have to deal their affliction any longer. The focus is more about peace to all involved: peace to those we put out of their comfort zones and forever peace for the sufferer. Peace from this condition that haunts them.

If you know someone in the depths of the dark abyss, FIND THEM HELP. The National Suicide Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. Don’t let them fend for their self. They need YOU. They don’t need judgment or a lecture.  They need your care, help, love and understanding.

I write from experience. I’m so blessed that I have a husband, a sister, and friends who wouldn’t let me self-destruct. If I’ve helped one person, then this blog has done some good.

What Dreams May Come seem now, even more close to reality. I sure hope Robin’s version of heaven is whatever he longed for. Peace to you, Mr. Williams.

There’s ‘Pop Art,’ and then there’s Mom Art.

It’s safe to say my mom was the first person to realize I’m a weirdo. And an artist. But not necessarily in that order.

My Mom raised five kids—two boys and three girls. I was born towards the middle of that mess. Mom’s hands were always full. My Dad was (and still is) self-employed. We lived above the family business on the second floor, so it’s obvious to say that Mom never left work—both figuratively and literally. Mom worked with Dad in the family business, plus she also took care of all the housework and meals. Laundry never ended with seven of us to dirty it. Meals to dirty dishes seemed continuous. The griping and howling of five kids never ended either.

A mother’s work is truly never done.

I’m pretty sure none of the five of us made it easy on our parents, but I’m going to go ahead and assume I was at the top of the list for making my mother pull her hair out by the handfuls.

I wasn’t an easy kid. I wasn’t easy to get along with, and I wasn’t easy to understand. I know this now. But now it’s too late. With four other siblings to vie for Mom’s attention, it was a bigger feat than you’d think—even if it were just to sing a song for her. I always knew that Mom was there, but she could only be one-fifth there. She’d have my baby brother on one hip, stirring something on the stove, breaking up a fight between my two sisters and then I’d hear her say “Ok Nettepease-han’, your turn. Sing.”  I’m sure it was some song I made up while using our boxer dog as my partner to dance with. Yeah, I was that kid.

I drew a lot for my Mom. I loved to draw anyway, and I realized I could get her attention and still not bother her. If I drew something and put it where she could find it, it would make her think of me. And I always got a “thank you, Sweetie.”

Then there were the teen-age years: I was a monstrous kid when I was in high school. I was boy-crazy; I probably broke all the house rules, and I know I could be nominated for the mouthiest kid in the U.S. in the early 1990s. For that Mom (and Dad,) I’m sorry.

My mom had more things going on than she could handle (most days,) and yet she DID give us her attention. It took becoming a mom myself before I realized how hard it would have been—torn in so many directions—and keeping all five of us content. I still don’t know how she did it. My siblings and I often ask each other “how the hell did Mom do that?”

A few years ago I decided I’d create a piece for my mom that summed up the way I saw those momming years of hers.

World On Her Shoulders

More about “World On Her Shoulders”

How does an artist sum up the craziness my poor mother dealt with on a day-to-day basis? Easy… it was never about the craziness. It was about A.) she gave up everything  by being the best mom she could be B.) the love she has for my father and how much she showed us that, and C.) there’s no way I can represent everything she did for we five kids.

She had the world on her shoulders. Mom was a female Atlas. (Ironically, Maia who was the daughter of Atlas in Greek mythology represented and embodied motherhood… so maybe I’m have something here.)

The “world” on her shoulders (or more so a piggy-back, which Mom would commonly give one of us kids) is an abstract world made of a car (exemplifying busyness) and a tree (metaphoric for the family tree.)

In the background is an image of she and my father. I’m not exactly sure of the year—I’m assuming 1968—near their wedding. Mom gave up a lot in the late 1960s.  From finishing her college education to making her dinner from what little meat  on a chicken’s back piece and/or wings (so the rest of the family could have the legs, thighs and breast pieces); being the best wife and mother came first for her.

There’s far too much to elaborate with this piece—like the irony of “the perfect flip” hairstyle and the light blue attire in reference to the reverence and homage for the Virgin Mother Mary from my catholic upbringing. I leave the rest to you to interpret.

Mommas don’t letchur babies grow up to be artists.

My Mom never—EVER discouraged me from my dreams of making art and wanting to become an artist. I remember other students my age who wanted to go into the arts, yet who would announce “my folks said you can’t make any money in art.”

Mom knew that happiness was far more vital for life than an over abundance of money. Mom wanted us happy.

A mom and an artist.

If a woman is a mother and an artist,  I believe both identities will come forth—in subject matter, stroke work, perhaps a softer palette. For me, being a mother is the most glorious gift bestowed upon me. I attribute all the good qualities of my mothering to my Mom. I guess I haven’t said in words yet, but I do love you so much, Mom. You’re the strongest woman in my life.

A mother’s art is never done.

I went back through some of my work and found a few pieces I created, based on my experience of motherhood—the good, the rough and the crazy.

A Young Forever

Sheltered

Exasperate

Babies of Cay

The Spell

 

Selfhood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hope you celebrate your mother(s)—those who are still with us, and those who are no longer with us—in the best way possible. Maybe make her something she can hang on her ‘fridge. Happy Mother’s Day!

The Idiot’s Weapon.

I was called an idiot.

Yeah. That happened. The person who referred to me as an “idiot,” doesn’t even know me (past minuscule contact through social media.)  This person’s just a friend of a friend.

However, WHY I was called an idiot was what got me.

You know those (I guess idiotic) surveys one can take – like on Buzzfeed? Unbeknownst to me, taking a pointless survey makes me an idiot. The act itself—of taking a survey—makes one an idiot?

So what I want to know what earth element I am, what flower describes me, that I was a samurai in a past life or what movie character most represents me?

I needed to define “idiot:”

id·i·ot  [id-ee-uht]:
noun a person of the lowest order in a former and discarded classification of mental retardation,
 having a mental age of less than three  years old and an intelligence quotient under 25.

Mental retardation? Wow.

Still, I’ve been called worse.

There are times in our lives when we’re not treated well by others. Everyone experiences the occasional abusive indignant person.

 

Use it for creative fodder.

I can’t tell you how many paintings I’ve created based upon the way others have treated a me, a dear friend, or a family member.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wasteland 

©Lynette K. Waters-Whitesell & Waters Color Studio. All Rights Reserved.

The first time I exhibited “The Wasteland,” The reactions received were also in my mind when I created the piece. Many of the grumblings I heard were about the “violent nature” or “poor deer.” However, I’m sure my version of these phrases were different from the literal connection some viewers made. Overall, most probably believed I was a PETA activist.

No. This had nothing to do LITERALLY with a deer at all.

Think back to high school literature… I’m sure everyone had their own version of Mrs. Williams. Mrs. Williams was my grammar, literature, English high school teacher. I recall her bubbly nature, gleaming smile and overtly joyous nature when it came to breaking down works of writing. How in blazes, could she be so excited to make our class dig deeper into similes, foreshadowing, personification? Who cares?!

But then we studied the metaphor: something used, or regarded as being used, to represent something else; symbol.

BOOM. Got it. I immediately connected with literature at that point. It’s imagery in words. Sure, that seems so obvious now, but in high school, I was fighting education. Gawking at a baseball player was much more interesting than onomatopoeia (even if it is fun to say.)

But metaphor… that I could relate to in art.

In visual art, most subjects are symbolic of something else, someone else, or something you may never know or experience. The specifics of that metaphor is irrelevant. What is pertinent is that you’ve looked deeper into that artist’s work. Have you considered why that artist chose certain  images, colors, composition—even scale? Why is it so brightly colored, or juxtaposed to something that may not make sense to you? Study the imagery, find the elements of the piece. Consider it a puzzle for only you to figure out. And if you can’t at least embrace the work, at least respect it for that artist’s visual, metaphorical voice. (Whether you like the piece is completely a different blog entry.)

If the pen is mightier than the sword, then—in my mind—the paintbrush is a bazooka. I’ll continue to guard off buffoonery with my weapon of choice.

 

Crossing Off a Bucket-List Item

Two weekends ago – February 2, I celebrated an event that I had dreamed about since I was in early high school—an art show. Sure, I’ve shown my work many times, but this one was different.

But first, let me preface you with some background…

High School Art Club circa 1989, My FIRST experience in an actual art museum: The Art Institute of Chicago. I remember staring at Georges Seurat’s “La Grande Jatte” just like Ferris Bueller did in the infamous 1986 movie. I, too mesmerized at the pointillist’s entrancing use of color and could stare at it for hours. I nearly choked when I found “American Gothic” by Grant Wood. It was more peaceful than it was rustic, which surprised me. What I thought I knew, and what I saw were two different things. I realized I couldn’t actually SEE a work of art from a photo in a book or publication. It was so different in person.

I realized I wanted to SEE – truly SEE – more art. I felt a visual need, or gluttony moreover, to view more ACTUAL “in-the-flesh” pieces of art.

I also remember traveling back to Indiana on that charter bus and mulling over how I could feed this visual hunger. You see, I lived (and still live today) in a little town with just over 6,000 residents. There is no auditorium, civic theater, community symphony, nor art gallery or museum. What little arts took place in that town were at the school-grade level. And it saddened me.

I had dreamed about living in Chicago and visiting the Art Institute often as an adolescent. As much as I thought I’d live in Chicago when I grew up, it never came to fruition. My life path took me down a different road, and I have not regretted it.

Fast-forward 20 years to December, 2011.

My husband had become the mayor of this sleepy-little, one-horse town in 2004, and at this time he was in his eighth year in office. Of course, he knew my love for the arts, but he embraced them as well. As mayor, he also knew that when taking prospective business owners around this tiny town, there was truly no culture to even mention to any interested party.

That was about to change.

A kind and wonderful gentleman had decided to close his business. This soft-spoken business man had owned and operated a gift and card shop housed on the downtown square. When he closed the card shop, it was so sad to see it go. I remember being a child and going in there with my mom to pick out a necklace for a friend’s birthday, or maybe a card for my Mamaw on Mother’s Day. It was the “go-to” when you needed a gift or card. You just don’t get service and a smile like the warmth that was in his shop. Still, it was time for him to move on, and maybe folks were starting to drive that thirty-minutes for no smile and a dollar cheaper card.

This businessman had decided to give his building to the city.

Ironically, for a few years before 2011, a small group of musicians, artists, actors, and other locals interested in the arts had met in the high school’s theater (and I use that loosely, because it maybe held 70 people). This gang of dreamers continued meeting each month with plans that they knew were going to amount to something eventually. And they did. That mayor mentioned  the donated building at one meeting, and I recall that moment when he struck that proverbial match. Lights were lit inside my friends and I, who had sat for years in this group doing more talking than doing.

Mayor asks himself:
“What did I get myself into?”

And so began the transformation.

For the next year, a handful of folks, including my husband—the mayor—and I, worked many weekends to transform this building into a gallery and small venue for musical events. What came was nothing short of extraordinary. The accomplishment, the dedication, the elbow grease, the volunteerism, the camaraderie. We were going to have something to show for all the meetings, clean-up weekends, revamping, reconstructing and rehabilitating.

(Former) Mayor is handed trash to put into the dumpster. Clean-up day, one of many.

*Please note there were many who worked on this project, but I do not have permission to place their photos and/or names on this blog.

That. Was a bucket-list item of mine.

Most artist’s dream of showing their work in New York, London, Tokyo, etc. I guess I’m thrilled  to show in my hometown. It’s minuscule to some, maybe. I think of all the people who planned, helped, raised-funds, and continue to make this arts center a successful one. I will always have that longing love of one’s first sweetheart with reincarnating a downtown building.

Folks, do what you can for the younger generations behind us. Funding for arts-related programs in schools are cut to the bone. There are many children who are not mathematicians, scientists, or athletes. That’s all I merely wanted when I had a gallery listed on my bucket list. Not that there was a gallery per-se, but that I—and many other art lovers–left a “gift” to the youth in our community

Before and after, east wall

Before and after, west wall

Donated downtown building
(Top: BEFORE • Middle: RENDERING • Bottom: FINISHED)

Ironically, we found this while rehabbing the building.
A little gift that the card shop we all loved left for us.

Painstakingly Polysemic Artwork by L. Waters-Whitesell

Seek A Second Opinion

Soooooo… I had a doctor’s appointment this morning, and in all honesty, my doctor is an awesomely wonderful man and doctor. He knows me like the back of his hand, and if I’m not mistaken, I’ve been his patient for nearly two decades. The one drawback to being his patient is the wait in the waiting room and another wait once you get settled into a patient room. It’s a guaranteed 1.5 hour wait. Today it was 2 hours before I saw him. Knowing this, I always take artwork or at the very least, a sketchbook into his office to get some creativity out. Today was no different. I trot into the office with a tall slender illustration of Dorothy Gale from the Wizard of Oz that I’ve been working on.

Once I use the automated, touch-screen check-in station, I find my way to a comfortable seat next to one of the small side tables, so I have an area to put my materials. Other patients sit reading magazines or watching the odd health “news channel” that plays in a loop giving them health tips and nutritious recipes. I usually lose all sense of surroundings when I start drawing.

Dorothy
(in-progress)

As I’m working my way, tracing some areas with a black Sharpie® around a Munchkin’s curly q headdress, I felt a little tap on my right knee.

“I know who dat is,” a little voice said to me. I would say this sweet strawberry-blonde headed girl was no more than four years of age.

“You do?!” I eagerly grin and nudge an answer from her.

“Yep! Dat’s Dor-phee from da Wiz-od ob Oz,” she continues.

This little nugget of a beauty entertained me with the story in her words of the “Wiz-od ob Oz” for some time. She let me know she was scared of “da mean green-face” (which prodded me to ask if she meant the witch or the giant head of the wizard), the monkeys were pretty blue “like dat color” (pointing a screaming cerulean blue on my illustration) but “dey are mean!”

We continued chatting about how beautiful the movie is. Oh, and how it’s only pretend (thank you to her guardian for pointing THAT out.) *head-desk*

As we chattered, I kept working on this illustration.

The little girl’s name was Lillian, named for her Nana who was in heaven now. I told her my baby was named after her Mamaw too. We had the loveliest conversation. Until…

“Can I help you draw?” Lillian asked.

Now mind you, in my early twenties, I would have just about leaped across the room, shoving the drawing under my shirt just to protect it. Now as I enter my forties, I have mellowed greatly. I figure she would learn more about the process and media than ruin anything of mine. Hell, I can draw another one. What’s the big deal? Right?

“Oh nooooo, Lilly. That’s HER drawing.” Her guardian interrupted as I started to hand Lilly a colored pencil.

“Aw, I don’t mind.” I announced.

“No. She needs to understand and respect other’s property.” The guardian snipped at me.

The guardian seemed older than I, so I assumed she wasn’t the Mommy to little Lillian. But I didn’t know if she was necessarily a grandma (since one was in heaven as mentioned) or an aunt, babysitter…what the connection was. I didn’t dare pry—which is why I refer to her as the guardian.

After the snappiness from the guardian, I decided to change the subject.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Lillian?”

“I’d LIKE to do what you’re doing.” She murmured under her breath.

“You want to be an artist?!” I exclaimed with a big grin.

Before she could start to nod her head or affirm my question, the guardian said “No, she doesn’t want to be an artist,” in the most derogatory tone.

Doing everything I could to keep from smacking the old broad, I then turn back to Lillian and asked, “so what DO YOU want to be when you grow up?”

Again, before she could answer, the guardian bolsters out “Someone who makes money!”

At this point in the volley, I’m sure there was steam coming out of my ears and I had turned a lovely shade of rhodamine red. I gave the guardian a staggering look and returned my attention to the illustration.

Feeling the tension in the room, the guardian stumbles over herself and asks, “Well, I mean, I’m sure you have a ‘real’ job, right?”

Still simmering, I retort with a question for the guardian, “you mean, like an eight-to-five job?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.” The guardian stammers.

“Well, yes, I do ‘hold-down’ a full-time job.”

Curiosity killing her, she asks, “can I ask what you do for a living?”

I half-smirk and say, “my title is ‘art director’.”

Silence came over the room and awkwardness continued to invisibly fill the air.

Within the next few minutes, the door opened and I heard a quiet voice say, “Lynette? For Dr. Smith.”

Before standing up to walk to the doctor’s rooms, I put my art materials away, with the exception to the one colored pencil I offered Lillian earlier. I tore out a sheet of paper from the accompanying sketchbook I had with me, and bent down to hand them both to Lillian. Lillian GLOWED.

“This is for you to make whatever YOU want.”

As I walked away, I could hear the immediate scribbling of pencil on paper. And then I GLOWED.

40 things I’ve learned in my past 40 years…

August 6th birthdays: Andy Warhol and I

This is my list…and a work-in-progress. Most I have achieved, others I’m still focusing on.

Feel free to read at your own risk. These are in no particular order.

40 things I’ve learned in my past 40 years…
1. It’s more important to have well-worn furniture by people you love (and fur babies) rather than own new museum-quality interiors.

2. Carry whatever dang purse and wear whatever shoes you like.

3. Have the courage and ability to face and accept the difficulties from your youth. Accept and embrace your feelings because they will continue to surface until you die.

4. “Age is just a number” and “you’re only as old as you feel,” are simplistic truths.

5. Being a wife, mom, daughter, aunt, sister, best friend are all important, but never lose sight of who you are and what you contribute to society. Always continue to hone and own your identity.

6. Never be ashamed to present your gifts and talents, and own your vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

7. You only need a handful of authentic friends who you can be ridiculous with.

8. You don’t have to do it all and be awesome at everything. You just don’t.

9. The best things in life costs nothing to give and/or receive. Cherish those virtues.

10. Believe that you are worthy of love and acceptance, and it never has to be earned, nor do you owe anything for reciprocation.

11. Be a realist AND a dreamer. (Recently one of my best friends told me only realists ARE dreamers. We can see the reality and imagine something better.)

12. Being a bitch is no more than what you believe it is. I believe you’re called that when others do not appreciate your crassness or can’t vie with your intellect.

13. Be conscious and caring of creatures whether it’s human friends and children, fur babies, or family.

14. Happy is she who accepts she cannot fix what she cannot change.

15. When it comes to how someone treats you, know what’s acceptable uncomfort and what is just down-right abusive.

16. Cherish your solitude.

17. The narrative of bad situations can change along with your perspectives and healing.

18. Know the difference between doing something for money or for love.

19. Everyone should have to be strapped to a chair and made to watch Downton Abbey.

20. Lewis Carroll and Frank L. Baum were saner than the critics and others who never understood their stories.

21. Find time to make up your own words, turn benign words into cuss words (I tend to use “gargoyle” as a cuss word,) draw on the walls, sing really loud and embarrass others in your company. It won’t hurt a gargoyle thing.

22. Establish and maintain boundaries, but don’t let them own you.

23. You should never drop everything for anyone. Or, you should change your name to “Doormat.”

24. Realize that your children become you. So when you’re hell-bent irritated with them, look in the mirror. You’ll see.

25. Have a sense of humor about those who have crossed your path and walked away.

26. Find just one charity that you whole-heartedly love and believe in. Give of your time and/or your money. Yearly.

27. You don’t have to believe in a god, an afterlife, but respect those of us who do. And vice-versa. With that stated, if you believe in anything, believe in grace.

28. Travel would be nice, but I can take myself anywhere in my mind (and on a canvas.)

29. If you can do one positive thing for the next generation, please do so. Teach a class, tell a story, or help someone. Pay attention to the next generations dreams and if you can, embrace them.

30. Pick brains over beauty/brawn any day of the week. Beauty fades. The mind will grow.

31. Always be able to poke fun at yourself.

32. Do something unexpected for a complete stranger. Pay for their meal, tip them twice your bill, or send an anonymous note.

33. (Piggy-backed from the last one)…. Utilize snail mail. Receiving a note, card, letter, is a completely different tone than an email or text message.

34. Skip. Whenever you can. Or jump rope. Feel free to substitute jumping rope for skipping. MANDATORY: Play whiffleball at least twice a year.

35. Listen, and I mean LISTEN intently to your elders. They will be gone before you know it. They are a font of information, and they will know more about a time you will never experience.

36. Know the difference between a passion and a hobby. There’s only one you can’t live without.

37. Respect and hire those who are professionals. There’s a reason you don’t visit your neighbor for dentistry. *(Unless he/she is a dentist.)

38. If you hit an animal, stop. Period. If you possess a heart at all, you stop.

39. Find more time for others. I fear I will look back and miss someone I love very much.

40. Believe in yourself. There may come a time no one else will, so you have to believe in yourself.

Jumping into Icy Etsy Water

Well… I finally gathered the courage to post items on Etsy.

Etsy actually makes having a shop quite simple, so that’s not what shackled my wrists. The idea of managing a storefront concerned me.

I opted to start small.

Worse case scenario, no one will buy anything, and I’m out only cents to post. The idea of dragging out the process to join Etsy wasn’t really about not selling as much as it was a worry about maintaining a shop. Let’s be honest, the fun part is making the work – not packaging, shipping, and anything else that’s clerical. Also, what if something goes wrong? What if I find that it’s a waste of time? What if it drains me?

So I decided to quit with the “what ifs.”

http://www.etsy.com/shop/waterscolorstudio