Motherwell, Part 3

Ah, the last of my art classes this Fall. A month of Mark Rothko followed by a month of Robert Motherwell. I am now moderately educated about the mid-century Abstract Expressionist art movement, although my skills with a paintbrush need work. Tonight is the last class. Is my personal Renaissance over? After tonight's failure, maybe.

In his 50's and 60's, Motherwell painted his Open series. These appeal to me in their simplicity and depth of color. The color is broken by sparse, contrasting, angular lines.

Open No. 156. Robert Motherwell, 1970.

Premonition Open. Robert Motherwell, 1974.

Untitled (Ultramarine and Ochre) Open. Robert Motherwell, 1973.

Teacher explained that Motherwell was likely influenced by the open windows Matisse painted. Artists are almost always influenced by the styles of other artists.

Open Window, Collioure. Henri Matisse, 1905.

Now we were instructed to begin with automatic drawing, as we had done for the prior 3 classes. I chose a blue pencil for this. Then we were told to wash our canvas with color - translucent color.  I mixed green to cover my blue pencil scratches.

Blue and yellow make green.

My canvas with blue pencil sketching and green wash.

 Then we were told to be motivated by an open window. We were to keep color and balance in mind as we worked. I could not really get the feel for my project tonight. It evolved every 20 minutes, without real focus.

Didn't like the window. Added the fat black border.

Added thinner lines to draw the eye down from the ugly window.

Blacked out the window entirely.

I was sad on my final night of class that I just couldn't get into it. Last week was such a good time; this week felt like work.  When I flipped the canvas upside down for perspective, I saw the Star of Bethlehem and a black stable. I asked Teacher if I should paint a little Baby Jesus in the darkness. He said, "Motherwell's Open series is about depth and simplicity. There is nothing simple about Baby Jesus, so NO."

I decided the only part of my work I liked was the texture of the brush on the canvas, and the contrast of dark on light. I may take a scissors to it and end up with just the window itself.

A classmate, the guy who owned the shoe store, was really into it. His work didn't move me, but neither did my own so that's not saying much.

After class, I texted Jo a picture of my newest piece. She asked me if I was hanging my paintings throughout my house. "NO, are you kidding?" I said. "Half of them are already in the trash."

"That's too bad," she offered. "It would have been fun to give them to people as Christmas gifts and see their looks of horror when they opened them."

Nice, Jo. Real nice. Maybe SHE will be the recipient of them ALL!

Motherwell, Part 2

Last week, for my third Motherwell session, there was a nude drawing class in the room next door. Oddly, the adjoining door remained open. I couldn't help but to steal a glance from time to time. I only saw an elbow and leg, but wanted so badly to cross over and check out their scene. I thought about pretending I needed to borrow a stapler. The model was a nondescript young woman in striped socks. I saw her enter the classroom in a robe prior to class. I contemplated how desperate for spending money I would need to be in order to stand boldly naked in front of strangers in a drafty old warehouse.

Before our lesson, Teacher had us create another automatic drawing. Then we were told to use paint to create shapes from our drawings. There was no prelude to class, no lesson or chit chat. Okay then!

When we completed this assignment, Teacher told us about Motherwell's collages. Teacher said Motherwell was critical of one of his contemporaries (I think he said Jackson Pollock) for his practice of tearing paper and walking all over his canvases. Motherwell at first thought this disrepectful to art but soon saw things differently. His collages are about destroying and recreating. Motherwell said "Putting forth effort into destroying something can make you sensitive to its qualities just as much as one's love of it." This was the premise behind his collage-making. Teacher instructed us to cut up our paintings - cut them up and reconstruct them into collages.

The art of abstract expressionists expressed the angst and chaos of the times in their art. Atomic bombs, cold wars and destruction shaped their thinking. Cutting and tearing was an expression of the destruction the world and creation of new reality. What would my new reality be?

I spread out the black cut-outs I had made and looked at them. What a mess. Some of the pieces were angular like ribs; others were curved like kidneys. The pieces seemed to be forming a human figure right in front of me. I would make my own model not unlike the naked woman next door. Mine would not have socks on. Using glue sticks - I can't imagine that any great work of art was ever assembled with glue sticks - my Motherwell Man was born.

I used Teacher's stash of magazines to give my collage texture and color. I had a really good time! Next week is the last class - Booooo!!!

Midday Run

She popped into my office doorway at 9:00 a.m. "We are running at 11:00."

Wait, what?  Who is "we?"

It is common knowledge among colleagues in my department that I try to walk everyday for 30 minutes around lunchtime. Usually outdoors. They see me duck out in shorts and a t-shirt in all kinds of weather. This began last Spring when I started to lose an eventual 40 pounds. Gina's office is across the hall, and she knew I had a change of clothes and sneakers in my office for this purpose. She is training for her first 5K in three weeks, and was feeling insecure.

"Gina, I sweat. Badly. There's no way I can run in the middle of the day at work! Plus I don't have a sports bra handy. NO!"

"But you ran this race last year and you need to keep me on task. I only have 3 weeks left to train."

"True, but not my problem."

"How about we just do 10 minute spurts? Please?"

I looked at her. She is 7 years my junior, long and lean. She probably weighs 115 pounds after bearing 3 children. She waited. She was adorable. I couldn't say no.

"Okay, but just this once because it's a Friday and I don't have any afternoon meetings." By her reaction, you would have thought I told her it was Christmas.

11:45 rolled around and we finally got out the door. She had one of those training apps on her phone, so I followed her lead when to run and when to walk. Running in tandem with someone was odd for me. When I run with Marty, we run at our own paces. "Don't let me hold you back," I said when it became evident that my breathing was labored and hers was not." She breezily replied, "No worries," with the healthy breath of a thin person. She was able to hold a conversation with herself while we ran. I was wheezing and gasping for air like a drowning person. She asked me if I was alright. I nodded. She said her legs burned. I didn't believe her.

We stumbled back into the office. She was not visibly sweating. I was drenched. I was also late for my lunch date with Susie. I thought of just dashing off to her office in my shorts, but then I remembered she was filling in for someone else in a location visible by one or more Deans. I quickly emailed her that I would be there in 10 minutes, and closing my office door, I flung aside my running gear, pulled on my jeans (casual Friday) and blouse. The jeans clung to my still-sweating body, heat was radiating from my face, and sweat was dripping down my spine. My hair? I felt like I was wearing a wool turban.

I quickly made my way to Susie's office. She looked up as I rounded the corner. "What happened to YOU?" she asked.

"Give me a fan," I demanded, "Quick!" She passed me a file folder. I couldn't fan my face fast enough. I told her my story. When I was done, she remarked that my run was ridiculous and that she needed a sandwich. Susie McTurkin is unflappable. Her dry humor and practical sense are magnificent. We have been friends for almost 15 years, despite my sincere suggestion - my insistence - that she name her son Gherkin McTurkin. Who doesn't love a Baby Gherkin? To my disappointment, they opted for a name much less exciting.

We ate together and enjoyed each other's company. A brief moment of nausea passed over me. I made a mental note not to scarf down a 6-inch Italian sub 10 minutes after a run. As I stood to leave, I saw that the creases in my jeans were damp from sweat, leaving a wet V from hips to crotch. Nice touch.

"No one will really notice it," Susie assured. "It kind of blends with the dye of the denim."

"Good.  How do I look otherwise?"

"Red," she said. "Wet."

"Can we call it a luminous flush?"

"No. You look ill." You can always trust Susie to say it like it is.

I navigated the hallways back to my office, bedraggled, thinking, "Please don't run into anyone you know please don't run into anyone you know..."  My wish came true until I rounded the last bend.

"Oh, hi!" my colleague said, "Did you just shower? Why is your hair wet?"

To make things better, back in my office I saw an email for an impromptu 2:00 meeting. I had 30 minutes to get my act together. I had an orchestra of rowdy wet curls to tame, a crotch-V to dry, and I could now smell myself. It was not BO, but the musky sour-sweet smell of rotting cleavage. Boob sweat was trapped in its polyester casing with no chance of drying out before Saturday. I marched into Gina's office - she looked as fresh as a daisy - and told her she had doomed me. She smiled and said she had a ton of energy and felt great, didn't I feel great?

"Do I LOOK like I feel great?"

Our eyes locked. Gina paused before answering. "Yes?  But you might want to wear a hat to your meeting."

Keeping one of these in my office might not be a bad idea.

Motherwell, Part 1

Another art class! My foray into abstract expressionism and the Mimicking the Masters Series continues with Robert Motherwell. Who dat? Motherwell was a younger contemporary of Mark Rothko. They were both primary figures in abstract expressionism, an American-born movement in art.

NIGHT #1:  There were five of us in the class. When we introduced ourselves, I learned that I am the one with the least amount of artistic training. This means I will probably have the most fun. The room itself was inspiring tonight! The Center for the Arts is a nonprofit community-based art school. The building was built in 1911 and used to be a factory. Who doesn't love an old factory?

Blinded by inspiration and solar rays.

Abstract expression is important to America because until that point (the 1940's) "art" was mostly happening in Europe. Abstract expressionists were not interested in painting landscapes or forms. They wanted to create new post-war mid-century realities. Abstract art was focused more on emotion than form. Unlike Rothko, Motherwell often started with sketches, "gesture drawings" or "automatism". These are fancy words for doodlin' and scribblin' - drawing without intention. Then he would interpret his drawings with paint and color.

Our task in class was to explore surrealist automatism - scribble our asses off - then step back and interpret our doodles. We were told to scribble 3 times: one with our right hand, one with our left hand, and one with simultaneous hands. Most of the background scribbles are hard to see in these photos because they are pencil lines but you get the idea.

Circles and squiggles with my right hand...

...interpreted as a cup of tea, teaspoon, and lemon slices.

...interpreted as a man playing a French horn.

My left hand, squiggles and shapes...

Both hands, which operated like windshield wipers...

...now it's Abe Lincoln. Or a hatless Amish guy.

NIGHT 2: The following week, Teacher taught us about Motherwell's famous series called Elegy to the Spanish Republic. There are over 150 huge canvas paintings in this series, but most of them look like this:

Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 54.

Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 110.

In abstract expressionist style, the painting as a whole is meant to evoke emotion or feeling. This registered with me when Teacher said the works in this series were meant to invoke the disappointment and oppression of war, and rhythm like a drum beat or march. Motherwell chose black and white for drama in this series, but he used color in many of his paintings. Elegy to the Spanish Republic was our inspiration for the evening. We were tasked to do some automatism scribbles, interpret our scribbles, and use black and white paint to express the emotion of our piece. I could not find the black paint, so I used blue. Blue ended up working my favor.

My sketch. In it, I saw a sailboat in dangerous waters.

So I painted a sailboat with blobs like Motherwell's example.

I completed the task. A sailboat tipping on the sea. Done. then I looked at my watch. There was still an hour left in class. Everyone else was quietly and diligently painting. In black and white. Where did they find the black paint?!?  Anyway, then I looked at Teacher's work and I knew somehow I had missed the mark. Big time.

Teacher's canvas.

"Hey Teacher, can you come here for a sec?"  He did. "I think I've lost my purpose here. Tell me again what we are supposed to do?"  Teacher explained. "You sketched, interpreted a sailboat and you painted a sailboat. But there's no emotion here. Where is the turbulent water and the movement of the sea?"

Hmmm. "Okay Teacher, thanks."  So I squiggled the turbulent sea. I love to squiggle.

Sailboat + Turbulent Sea.

Done. I looked at my watch. There were still 50 minutes left in class. "Hey Teacher, can you come here for a sec?"  He was a good sport and came over. I said, "I'm not feelin' it tonight."

"Well, I see the boat. I see the water. But I can't feel it. Motherwell said 'I have painted many mistakes but I have never painted a lie.' You need to paint emotion. This sailboat is a lie until you do."

Seriously? "But Teacher, I don't understand what emotion a sailboat should have."

"Maybe your painting is not about the sailboat. Maybe it's about the sea. Paint what it feels like to go under. Paint the force of the waves and the voice of the storm."

Good grief. "I'll think about that, but this looks less and less like Motherwell's Spanish Republic series. Aren't I supposed to 'Mimic the Master'?"

"Definitely mimic him - his process, his technique, his expression, but not his paintings. That would be forgery." With a smile, chucking at his own cuteness, he dismissed himself to wander the class and consult with the others.

I stared at my squiggled mess. Paint what it feels like to go under? Panic. I'll show you panic, you stupid sailboat, cuz you about to go under, baby...

Voice of the Storm, 2015.

The Party Bra

Jo called. "This is so intense," she said. "I'm coming up there. I'm taking you shopping, then we'll go to Temple together and give your mom the day off." There was no arguing with Jo, anyway I didn't want to argue. Dad was 3 weeks in the surgical ICU not making any progress, and Mom and I were emotionally exhausted. Jo was coming. Mom and I would have a break in the monotony of traveling in and out of Philly together, an hour each way, visiting a man who would not awaken. Everyday the doctors said the same thing: "We just don't know."

Jo pulled into the driveway on Friday afternoon at the same time we were returning from our daily trek to Temple. She lugged in a HUGE pan of peanut butter fudge. Mom stayed behind to make phone calls and embark upon a fudge-based-stress-reduction regimen while Jo and I went to Kohl's in Exton.

In the large handicap dressing room together, I voted against a blouse and tossed it aside. "Uh, WHAT is THAT?" Jo asked, referring to my bra. I looked at it in the mirror. "What? I'm not saggy, am I?"

"Honey, you need a new bra. That thing is sad."

I reviewed it in the mirror. It was beige, but I think it used to be white. The straps were fraying a little, and there was a runner in the nylon on the side of the cup causing a pucker. I had to agree that it was sad.

"Bras are not a priority for me right now, Jo."

"Stop. You need a Party Bra. Every woman should have a sexy bra that makes her feel good even though she is the only one who knows. There should be a party going on under every t-shirt and turtleneck in America."

This was part of Jo's midlife crisis. She had lost weight, which had done favors for her curves, and she became obsessed with underthings. Randomly, she texts me photos of her bosoms in V-neck dresses or in new bras with messages like "Jo's got her groove back" or "44 going on 30". We split up to scour the racks for Party Bras. Mostly I gravitate toward matronly bras with padded straps, full coverage, deadbolt latches and emergency ripcords because I don't like any jiggle or sag. Cutesy, silky, decorative bras don't usually do the job, and I gave up on them a long time ago. Even when I was 12, I hated the stupid embroidery flower in the middle of training bras and would cut them off immediately. But today I was in Jo's hands.

Soon she was charging toward me waving a fuchsia bra with black lace trim. "No!" I protested. "Hush, just try it." When I put it on, I laughed. I hadn't laughed in days. It was ridiculous. Was it supposed to be sexy? Do people really wear these? But Jo was right. It made me laugh and I saw the value of having a secret like this to share with myself. Jo would not let me escape without matching panties, so we found an equally ridiculous zebra and pink polyester number for a Party Down Below. Is this what a midlife crisis looks like?

The next morning as I dressed, I was already anxious. The hospital had called early. Dad aspirated overnight and they were trying to regulate his breathing. Mom would not get her day off as we had planned. I looked at my new purchases on the dresser. If there was any day I would need a pick-me-up, it would be today. I tore the tags off the Party Bra with my teeth, and donned the polyester underpants. There. Please God, let this Secret Party lighten my load today.

It was a Saturday. The Philadelphia Flower Show was drawing record crowds. Traffic was gridlocked. It took us several hours to get to Temple. En route, the hospital called twice to ask us how close we were. With each call, our stress mounted. They kept dad "alive" on the ventilator until we arrived bedside. His skin was already cool to the touch when I kissed him goodbye. They snapped off the machine and it was over in seconds. Nurses comforted us, rubbed my back and patted me gently on the hooks of the Party Bra they could not see under my sweater. They repeated, "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

After primary phone calls were made and we shifted from emotionally raw to just numb, we headed home. I drove, Jo rode shotgun, and Mom was in the backseat replaying the events in disbelief and making call after call. Jo and I were silent. Each of Mom's calls started out calmly but ended in tears. When she cried, Jo and I cried too as we listened to her tell the tale. Then it hit me. Through tears I looked at Jo: "This is NOT a Party Bra. It's a DEATH Bra!" and we burst into laughter like only a day of emotional tension can create. Mom leaned forward covering the phone with her hand, "What? Are you talking about me?" And that made us laugh harder.

I wore the Death Bra for dad's funeral. It seemed strangely appropriate. In a striped dress and black cardigan, I climbed the steps to the pulpit. I stood before a congregation of 250 to speak a few words of remembrance, and not a single mourner knew I sported hot pink cones of glory. One by one they hugged me and my Bra of Death: "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

I put away the Death Bra for a while. It carried too many sad memories. Then I said to myself, "This is stupid. It's just a bra! I didn't pay $40 for it to lay in a drawer." The underpants, I must say, were tossed after 1 use. They made me sweat so bad I knew I'd never wear them again - $1.99 wasted.

Jo called. "What are you packing for our trip? My new bathing suit shows lots of cleavage." We were heading to San Diego for business and for pleasure. I told her, "I guess I should bring my Party Bra if you are going to flash cleavage everywhere."

"Oh no you won't!" Jo insisted. "I'm not going down in flames over Kansas because your Death Bra is on board. Leave that thing right where it is, please."

"You are the one who made me buy it!" I was indignant. I had to get over my superstition and this wasn't helping.

"We'll get you a new one. How many shoes are you taking?" And that was that. The Party Bra stayed in the drawer.

A month later, I tried again. I wore it a third time. Two things happened that day. First, I learned that B.B. King died. Marty and I had the privilege of watching him play once, and it was sad to know that The Thrill was Gone forever. Second, Mom told me that she saw a helicopter flying so low that she thought it was going to crash into her house. I couldn't take any more risks - that was the last day I wore the Death Bra.

Until today. It has been 5 months since B.B. King died, and I decided I needed to wear it or burn it. So here I sit, cupped in brilliant pink, ending my day, death-free. But I think I might burn it anyway. It's probably carcinogenic.

Like a Moth to a Flamer

"Lover, I'm going to write about you. Would you be offended if I described you as 'gay as a maypole in Spring'?"

"I wouldn't be offended, but I prefer 'as queer as a three dollar bill.'"

This is my Cole. We address one another as "Lover" and we mean it. We delight in each other completely. When together, we are crass, bawdy and at the very least, politically incorrect. It was instant and lasting love. We met at Red Lobster in Wyomissing, PA. We waited tables there. I was fresh from college in the Midwest, with tattered Birkenstocks, Carole King hair and an anthropology degree. Cole had a Bette Davis shower curtain, worshipped Stevie Nicks and owned leather pants with side zippers. Together we wallowed about men, wrote depressing poems about heartbreak, and cracked each other up. Constantly. Consistently. Still do.

The summer of '93 was the best summer of my life for several reasons. Primarily, it was the last totally carefree time in my life, but another reason was Cole. He shared my sense of humor ("twisted," he calls it) and we learned quickly we could feed each other's need for idiocy. He flirted with me so intensely I didn't realize he was queer, despite his immaculate highlights, until another server told me. He seemed more fascinated with my lady bits than any man before or since, and has been loyally groping them for 22 years.

Me and Cole, summer 1993 in PA, at Maria-from-Red-Lobster's wedding.

We fit into the crew at Red Lobster perfectly - a cast of misfits well-suited for any combination of art school, rehab or vagrancy. Lost souls, all of us. But working was actually fun! I was always surrounded by humor, shenanigans and cigarette smoke. Cole and I pretend we are above it all. We pretend that we have grown up and no longer crave those salty delicious cheddar biscuits with comments like, "If only they were made with rosemary and a bit of truffle oil." Other times we get our Pennsylvania Dutch on and declare how a tall glass of chicken gravy would really hit the spot.

But the truth is, we have grown up. Cole has a well-established career and faithful clients; I straighten my hair and make science. His life overflows with decorative urns and designer footwear; mine with spreadsheets and national parks. Our "twisted" humor and our history tie us to the summer of '93 and remind us how carefree we were. Those things will keep us young-at-heart and crazy and coming back for more.

At the height of my dad's failing health, I visited Cole and his husband, Kevin. As I sat in their living room in a stress-induced stupor during the Oscars, I listened to them banter about Lupita Nyong'o's misunderstood pearl dress. I swelled with love for them. I was there because they are my balm. A tonic for what ails me, any time, any place.

In the Fall of 1993, I broke two hearts when I moved away - his and my own. We said if we were still single and pathetic at 40 that we would marry each other. To his mother, he describes me as the wife he would've had if he wasn't such a homo.

When I recently was in my file cabinet and discovered some old poetry, I found one that Cole wrote in '93 in honor of me. I treasure it, and I love my Cole!

Here today, gone tomorrow.
The sweet sorrow of knowing her.

Is she just an angel

sent to make me smile,

here to help me heal?

Or is she just a dream,

gone when I wake.

Leaving me with something

she did not take.

The reality of losing someone to

distance is haunting.

It won't be the same.

But someone in Minnesota will know my name

and I will be loved

a long distance away.

Me and Cole, summer 2015 in NC, selfie in the garden.

Team Who?

"Pig Sooie!  Wooooo Pig Sooie!"  What the hell?!?  Is she talking to me?

Maybe I know this person from middle school, but I don't think so. She's being awfully rude with the pig reference. Then she pointed to my shirt with a smile. "Are you from Arkansas?"

At some point in our marriage, my husband decided it was necessary for me to wear clothing with logos that promote his sports teams. While I consider myself fairly athletic, I do not and never have followed any college or professional sports team. Mostly because I have better things to do. Like nap. But here I was, once again, caught off guard, feeling like a tropical bird in flashy feathers attracting a mate only to disappoint the suitor. My University of Arkansas t-shirt succeeded in attracting a Razorbacks fan who wooed me with the trademarked "Hog Call." I had never heard it before. "Oh, what? Me? No, my husband is. He's the Razorbacks fan. I just have a shirt." The rejection. The apologetic smile. A parting of ways. Damn, I hate that. This isn't the first time this happened. On the trail near my house, I was strolling one Sunday and a stranger walking his dog said to me, "Are you ready for tonight?" I hoped he was flirting. "Excuse me?" I questioned coyly. "Your shirt. Tonight's game. Are you ready?" I was wearing my San Francisco 49ers shirt. Not flirting. "Oh, that. Sure," I said, and gave him a fake-enthused thumbs up. Whatever. I didn't know the Niners were playing that day. Turns out it was Superbowl playoffs.

Strangers approach Marty all the time in public when he is wearing his sporty garb. They gush and bond over their beloved team of choice. They exchange words I don't understand like "Orange Bowl" and "Kaepernick." Sometimes quietly in passing, they share an intimate nod of the head or a tip of the logo'd cap - a silent acknowledgement between lovers...football lovers. It's weird. Marty doesn't speak often, but I have seen him converse with strangers in the grocery store at length about defensive strategies or argue the merits of a coach. But the opposite happens to me. Someone asks me cheerily, "How do you like Russell Wilson this year?" and I reply in earnest: "Who?" with a Seattle Seahawks logo blazing from my chest like a beacon. Inevitably they point at the logo while I stare blankly. I am the killer of friendly conversation. I have learned to say "My husband's team. Go team!" shrug, and flash the apologetic smile before they do. I really should watch more football.

Wearing my 'Niners shirt at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, 2012. Go team?

Carousel Horse

In my late teens and twenties, I wrote poetry in times of confusion. I've decided to dig some of them out of the file cabinet this weekend. Carousel Horse is about my urge to move around a lot after college. I had 5 different addresses in 4 states (two time zones) between December 1992 and August 1994. Moving around and starting over was always both exciting and sickeningly sad for me. I could never sort out in my head what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to be. I suppose this is true for tons of people in their early twenties, but not everyone bounces around the country in the process. I used to brag that everything I owned could fit in my Oldsmobile.

Carousel Horse, 11/27/1993

A smile on a painted face,
An easy road,
A steady pace.
Predetermined destination,
No vagabond inclination.
No searching soul or shedding tear,
No goodbyes filled
With love, with fear.
Existing void of grief and pain,
No memories to retain.
A carousel horse I yearn to be -
But if I were,
I'd yearn to run free.

Also found in my file cabinet, this picture from December 1993. What you cannot see, are the stirrup pants and penny loafers. This was taken in PA, but by the time it was developed, I was living in Minnesota.

Family Reunion

Hackett family reunion, 2015.  Marty's mother's paternal kin, I think. It's been a LONG time since I went to a family reunion, and this would be the first one we would attend as a couple. I haven't been to any of my own family reunions since the 1980's unless you count dad's loud and lovable cousins having a cookout from time to time.

First we had to RSVP and pay a $50 registration fee. It was an extra $15 per person for a t-shirt emblazoned with the family name. We opted for no shirts. Marty coordinated with his brothers, and made hotel reservations in Hot Springs for several nights - black family reunions apparently go on for days, like Hanukkah without the presents.

This pre-event fanfare was foreign to me. Growing up, all my family reunions were simple afternoons in a Lancaster County public park or church. Grown-ups brought food and lawn chairs, and there were games for children usually involving getting pelted with candy or peanuts. An oldster with a notebook would make announcements and give prizes to the youngest and oldest people attending. We prayed and passed the offering plate and went home. No registration fees, no t-shirts. My favorite was the Shaubach reunion, partly because of its cake walk. Cake walks involve forming a circle and walking 'round and 'round until Someone said stop. Then Someone would ask for a characteristic, like "Birthday in May." The first person in the circle from a designated starting point who fit the criteria would win a cake of his/her choice, and leave the game. Shaubachs were Mennonite and Mennonites can bake like no one else. This means getting eliminated early was a perk, because you had the biggest selection - apple spice cakes, shoo fly pies, chocolate layer cakes, whoopie pies and angel food cakes galore.

Marty and I drove 13+ hours to Arkansas. The first night of the reunion, Friday, was a "meet and greet" at a lake house the organizing family rented. It was a small event, followed on Saturday by a larger gathering of families. We were there for 10 hours on Saturday, and another 4 hours on Sunday before leaving town.

Being bombarded by 50 never-before-seen spousal relatives in matching t-shirts is overwhelming. Even moreso when they have multiple names: Cookie, Button, Tee. Which one is Ruth - Cookie or Button?  There was generational confusion, like Uncle Jerry and Jerry Junior, who is also Uncle Jerry to some. My all-time favorites are Uncle Little Brother (Uncle Li'l Bro), who is Little Sister's (Li'l Sista) twin. They are Mama's youngest siblings. Li'l Sista is deceased and ULB (who always calls me "Li'l Missy") lives in Chicago and were both missed. And there sat Mama herself, 83 years old, half deaf and fast asleep in the chair. Marty and his naughty brothers joked about who should slide a mirror under her nose to test if she was still breathing.

The most popular question I was asked: "Who are you married to?" My answer was always, "The bald twin." The second most popular question was, "Do you have children?" While I would expect this at a family reunion, what I did not expect was the "Why not?" that often followed. I don't think I've ever been asked by strangers WHY I have no children. I find this incredibly personal. Maybe I am an ovarian cancer survivor or miscarried 10 times. Maybe Marty has no genitals or we just hate kids. At any rate, it's a question best left unasked. Otherwise, it was a raucous great time. Once the board games came out, it was ON. I was the #1 draft pick when teams were selected - I am, shall we simply say, enthusiastic and experienced. We were loud and crass and laughed until tears streamed. The Barren White Girl Married to the Bald Twin was HOME. This was FAMILY!

I think the trip was so valuable, not only to meet these wonderful relatives and get flashy with my gangsta game skilz, but to be enriched by Hackett perspectives on current events involving the Confederate flag, the 1-year anniversary of Ferguson, and police brutality in Baltimore. Black Lives Matter, especially when they are family. I miss Kim and Bobbi the most, even though proper Kim thinks her white girlfriends are uncouth for eating off each other's plates all the time. She asked Marty if I did that. He said, "Oh yes. And much worse." I smiled and kept my thoughts on food safety to myself. Secretly I was thankful she didn't see me fork-and-eat a random glob of potato salad off the kitchen countertop earlier.

Drunk Jesus

Mom, my sister and I took a short Girls Vacation that included a night at a Ramada Inn in Richmond, Virginia. We booked the Ramada in advance with no knowledge of the city, so we didn't know it was located in a seedy part of town. We huddled in our beds as we listened to a domestic disturbance through the wall. We called management and hoped Hostile Man wouldn't come after us next. After some time, a door slammed and there was silence. After nerves calmed, I fell asleep.

"Shannon! Shannon!" My sister, with whom I am sharing a queen bed, is jabbing me in the ribs. It's a flashback to 1977. I hated sharing a bed with her then, and I hated it now. "There's someone at the window!"

"No there isn't. Go to sleep."

"No, I see a shadow! Don't you see someone lurking at the window?!?"

"Shut up. Leave me alone."

Mom pipes up, from her bed, "What's going on, you two?"

My sister sits up. "I am telling you, there's someone out there!"

I open one eye, ready to punch her face, and then I saw it.  A shadow at the window. I bolted up. Two grown sisters sitting up in bed, staring at a shadow.

Mom asks, "Do you think it's the wife beater from next door?" God, I hope not.

We all fixate on the curtain in silence. Then the shadow disappears. We hear a key card in the lock. Someone quietly tries the handle. We stare at the door, hearts pounding. We hear it again. I launch out of bed and scamper to the peephole. Through it, I spy a young man, clearly drunk, staring at his key card. He steps back from the door, looks at both sides of the card, and makes one last perplexed attempt at our door.

Relieved, I report, "I don't think it's the wife beater. It seems like a drunk and harmless guy. It's clear he forgot which room is his."

Mom wants more info. "What does he look like?"

I flatten my face against the door for another look. The bearded man, in sandals, is wandering away. "I don't know. I guess he looks like Jesus in a USA t-shirt."

Mom instructs me, "Well DON'T let him in!" (As if I would.)

My sister and I tease, "WHAT? Don't let JESUS in? Blasphemy!"

Mom defends her position: "No! If it really was Jesus, he wouldn't need a key."

Rothko, Night #4

The final class. Rothko, I hardly know you and it's goodbye already! True now as it was in life, since you killed yourself in 1970 when you were 66. Bummer. Something strange is happening. I spend an increasing amount of time each week thinking about abstract art, Rothko, and wet paint. 

Teacher called today's class Rothko Remixed. We were given a slab of plywood to use for our canvas, and our assignment was to apply any of the techniques we have learned, using the texture and pattern of the wood as our inspiration. I wanted to pay homage to my 26-year old Cool Girl flannel smock, so I used the colors of the shirt as my palette.

Homage to Flannel, 2015.

I mixed my pink, adding water to make it a wash moreso than a paint. "Keep it thin so not to lose the integrity of the wood grain," Teacher instructed.

Partially slathered plywood.

Fully slathered plywood.

I really do love to slather. If I painted nothing but bare canvas after bare canvas with colors I mix to my liking, I would be totally content. I applied several layers of wash in slathering strokes with fat pink bristles. Then I mixed my other colors using Teacher's color wheel. I finally got the violet that I intended for Night #1 - closure! I added my layers of colors in strokes and squiggles, smudging areas here and there with a damp paper towel. Step back. Chat with classmates. Annette and Nick said they are making pottery next month. They are "taking a tour" of the available classes at the Center. Bob has been reading an art history book, and recommended a Rothko biography. I was excited to show Bob the photo I took of a plastic model of an ear cross-section that reminded me of his project last week. Sadly, he was not as excited about this as I was.

Bob's Art, Week #3

Plastic cross-section of the human ear 

I learned that the next class in the Mimicking the Masters series will focus on Robert Motherwell. Of course I never heard of him. Google tells me he is from the same period as Rothko - another Abstract Expressionist - and WOW, his art is UGLY. But my flannel smock and I signed up immediately. I think I am addicted. But not addicted enough to get anything tattooed on my forearms. We can't all be as committed to art as Bee.

Rothko, Night #3

I found a smock finally! Balled up on the closet floor where it had slipped from its hanger, was my flannel shirt. I love that shirt! Marty hates that shirt. I bought it as a freshman in college because in 1989 in the midwest, cool girls wore flannel. So I thought. I wear it only around the house on chilly days, so if it gets paint on it, I won't really care. It's the oldest piece of clothing I own, and probably the most beloved.

Today's class focused on the 1940's, which is the period in Rothko's career where he transitioned from linear art to abstract. He and his contemporaries were greatly affected by the 'new reality' of war and the atomic bomb. They felt reality was distorted and abstract, and so was the art of the time. Our assignment was to use a photo as the inspiration for our work, then abandon the forms in the image entirely. Teacher likened it to a 4 year old who draws a rabbit. An adult asks the child, "Why is the rabbit blue and why does it have 4 wheels?" and the child says "Why not?" Rothko wanted to paint without rules. Teacher instructed, "Paint with 'why not?' in mind." After we painted the barest form of our photo, Teacher instructed, "Everyone rotate your work. Abandon the photo and paint what pleases you." Does a hot sticky mess please me? Because that's what I ended up with.

My final work. Can you guess the inspiration?

The Rothko examples that we were mimicking this week were amorphous. But the more we discussed them as a class, the less confused we were and the more we appreciated the "eyes of the beholders." We talked about the images we saw in his work, and what we thought they represented. Then Teacher rotated them and we had the same conversation again with entirely different comments.

Rothko multiform painting, 1948

Rothko multiform painting, 1948

After our discussion, class was unusually silent as we painted. We were all concentrating, cocking our heads, and stepping back from our easels for a view. We would visit each other's easels from time to time to discuss what we saw in each other's work, and then class was over. Teacher painted with us tonight, and at one point accidentally flung paint onto me. Onto my convenient beautiful flannel smock? Not at all. My pink sandals. They don't make smocks for those.

The final works of my class on Rothko Night #3.

My inspiration photo.