Being Our Own Worst Enemy
We are often our own worst enemies and this is played out before me time and again. Lately I’ve let the stress get to me almost to the point of making myself sick. I tell you, though, much of it is my own fault. (Okay, maybe all of it is my fault as I am in charge of my feelings.) I can be as stubborn as I accuse my mother of being. I brag to myself that I have all the tools and that I am “experienced,” but when I am faced with adversity or tough times, I crash and will tend to wallow in my misery.
There are some interesting aspects to this, however. Even when I am in anguish, there’s that part of me that self analyzes. Are there times when I act just like the person whom I have allowed to get to me in the moment? If I have all these “tools,” why am I not pulling them to the fore and being compassionate and peaceful? When I take time to pull back from the emotions, I am actually able to focus on why I am feeling thusly.
Another interesting aspect is that I have to admit that I often will choose the negative behavior around specific topics; my mother, legal stuff dealing with lawyers or real estate, the medical profession, etc. I suppose I could congratulate myself for this ability except that I do nothing to change it. I could… if I chose to.
So, why do I choose to allow myself misery and anger? Does it really have to do with the Buddhist belief that we are here to suffer? The latter is part of it, however, it’s also an excuse not to change or try to change. That means, if I am being honest with myself, I have to look at the first question. Why DO I choose to be miserable?
The biggest reason is because it takes WORK to change and if I am not willing to do the work, the old patterns will keep repeating. Alright, I admit, I am lazy. I don’t practice what I preach, and yet, I totally, one hundred percent believe in what I know.
Perhaps this is part of my evolution. Because I fall into the pit just like everyone else, I certainly will never think I am better than the next person. I know what suffering is because I, too, suffer; maybe not exactly like the next person, but it is suffering. It also makes me vulnerable and sometimes that can be a good thing as I’ve been accused before of not letting anything bother me.
Why do I choose the misery? Do I feel guilty when I am happy when everyone else around me has problems? There’s some truth to this, too, but it also has to do with empathy. I can’t shut the world off all the time and the universe does have ways of… testing one… and I always know when things go well for awhile, there is going to be a downslide. It’s the way of life.
Maybe this is why when I crash, I crash big time and unless someone or something scrapes me off the pavement with a shovel, I wallow in the abyss… for awhile… until it’s over… until it’s time to crawl out again… Then I pick myself up, dust myself off, and go on--- carrying a few more scars… or maybe they’re badges of courage… because I’ve not totally given up…
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
2010 Photo Walk in WRJ
This past Saturday I participated in my first photo walk, hosted by Lia Rothstein of the Photostop Gallery in White River Junction, Vermont as part of the Third Annual Worldwide Photo Walk. Photographers from many areas of the world were invited to get together to walk and take pictures on the same day. Handouts were given at the sign-in with directions and theme suggestions such as taking pictures of a certain color or shape.
The evening was hot and thunder storms threatened. People came with various equipment; big cameras, little cameras, tripods and extra lenses. Right off the bat, individuals drifted off as attention was grabbed. I was still debating whether to go with a theme or to just find what appealed to me. I was surprised that most didn’t stick with a group as some stopped while others moved on.
I am always intrigued by angles, lines, and windows. Oh, and there’s old buildings and things that are round… and colors… I started looking up the side of buildings and catching clouds in the window reflections. I took shots up ladders and of rows of lights. I captured roof lines and windows.
“Trains,” Gayle said. Oh, yeah, we’ve been working on a train project, so we decided to go to the station arriving in time to get photos of an incoming passenger train. One of the conductors even posed for us after all the passengers were off and as we explored inside the building, the ticket master offered to open the office for us where we oohed and aahhed while taking pictures of the old equipment.
The allotted time was running out and everyone began drifting back towards the gallery where the café next door had reserved spaces for us. It was wonderful to take time to share stories and techniques while showing the pictures taken. I also enjoyed that, like me, some people were also into other art mediums.
The food was good. I ordered a roasted Caesar salad trying to imagine what roasted lettuce would be like and my first impression was that it was “just okay,” but the more I ate, the more I liked. Finally, the association to the flavor hit me--- it reminded me of a marshmallow toasted over a campfire--- and with that memory, the salad became delicious and yes, I’d order it again.
On Sunday, I imported 124 pictures onto the computer. So far, I’ve only edited 28. I’m happy with the outcome and the photos are posted on flickr.com in the groups tab under Third Annual Worldwide Photowalk- White River Junction, Vt. Here also are postings from other participants. It’s awesome to see the differences in what attracted each of us.
The entire experience was a delight. What fun for all kinds of photographers.
This past Saturday I participated in my first photo walk, hosted by Lia Rothstein of the Photostop Gallery in White River Junction, Vermont as part of the Third Annual Worldwide Photo Walk. Photographers from many areas of the world were invited to get together to walk and take pictures on the same day. Handouts were given at the sign-in with directions and theme suggestions such as taking pictures of a certain color or shape.
The evening was hot and thunder storms threatened. People came with various equipment; big cameras, little cameras, tripods and extra lenses. Right off the bat, individuals drifted off as attention was grabbed. I was still debating whether to go with a theme or to just find what appealed to me. I was surprised that most didn’t stick with a group as some stopped while others moved on.
I am always intrigued by angles, lines, and windows. Oh, and there’s old buildings and things that are round… and colors… I started looking up the side of buildings and catching clouds in the window reflections. I took shots up ladders and of rows of lights. I captured roof lines and windows.
“Trains,” Gayle said. Oh, yeah, we’ve been working on a train project, so we decided to go to the station arriving in time to get photos of an incoming passenger train. One of the conductors even posed for us after all the passengers were off and as we explored inside the building, the ticket master offered to open the office for us where we oohed and aahhed while taking pictures of the old equipment.
The allotted time was running out and everyone began drifting back towards the gallery where the café next door had reserved spaces for us. It was wonderful to take time to share stories and techniques while showing the pictures taken. I also enjoyed that, like me, some people were also into other art mediums.
The food was good. I ordered a roasted Caesar salad trying to imagine what roasted lettuce would be like and my first impression was that it was “just okay,” but the more I ate, the more I liked. Finally, the association to the flavor hit me--- it reminded me of a marshmallow toasted over a campfire--- and with that memory, the salad became delicious and yes, I’d order it again.
On Sunday, I imported 124 pictures onto the computer. So far, I’ve only edited 28. I’m happy with the outcome and the photos are posted on flickr.com in the groups tab under Third Annual Worldwide Photowalk- White River Junction, Vt. Here also are postings from other participants. It’s awesome to see the differences in what attracted each of us.
The entire experience was a delight. What fun for all kinds of photographers.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
AN INTEREST IN TRAINS
Early memories of trains are sketchy. There are vague memories of going to Newburyport to pick up an aunt who would come in on the train from Lynn. I don’t think passenger service went further than Newburyport back in the 60’s, although freight trains were fairly popular. My brother and I learned to count at railroad crossings when my parents asked us to count the cars of the passing train. There were crossings in East Kingston and it was easy to tell, because of the shape of a few buildings and their closeness to the tracks, that at one time, trains stopped here. There were crossings in Exeter and an abandoned train depot was next to the variety store we frequented as high school students. I never walked the tracks, nor did I ever go to a swimming hole where kids jumped from a bridge, although hearing them talk about it sounded exciting. I remember crossing tracks that seemed to go on forever either way when we went to the creek where my dad would dig clams and we’d go down river to fish.
Outside of those incidences, trains were a dull mystery to me. As I grew older, sighting became less frequent and once I was able to drive places myself, I noticed more empty tracks, places where tracks were removed, and building that were once stations falling to ruin. Still, it was years before my interest began to peak and I don’t know what set me off.
“It’s sad about the trains,” became a mantra that made my friends chuckle. Perhaps it was that a way of life was disappearing that matched a sadness in my soul. Maybe it was a growing awareness in the landscape around me. Whatever it was, my interest rose.
I don’t know why, but I fell in love with an old building near the Newfields-Newmarket line (I recently found out it was called Rockingham Station.) I stopped one time to take pictures which surprised me that I would want to photograph something so run-down and dilapidated. There was a deep inner unexplainable sorrow over this piece of history.
And so it went on. I continued the “It’s sad about the trains” statements, but never did any further research. I did, however, go on a couple of scenic train rides on the Conway train and once I took the family on the Cog Railway and a couple of trips out west showed me that other states have more active railroads many of which are massive, many tracked systems.
Recently my interest was again sparked with the chance to enter photographs for a show and now that I am doing more research, I am amazed at what the railroad system once meant to the state and industry. Yes, there is still sadness as the decline in industry meant the decline in rail use and people desiring individual transportation just about put an end to train travel in the state. However, there are active lines in NH, Maine, and Vermont. Amtrak re-opened the lines between Boston and Portland, I don’t think they ever stopped service along the Connecticut River, and there are a few scenic trains running.
I am now on a journey to photograph rails and stations mostly in NH but also across the border into Vermont. Mostly I am fascinated by areas no longer in use. The architecture of the old stations and depots are fascinating. Textures, patterns, and lines in wood, brick, or stone are intriguing. I am pleased to see the Rails to Trails programs touching a piece of history and allowing the public the opportunity to see the beauty of our state and some towns are actually fixing up old buildings to be used as businesses or museums.
The active stations and areas are also amazing. I am pleased to have the opportunity to photograph trains in motion and after the solitude and bit of sadness with abandoned sections, it’s refreshing to witness the activity around the in-use stations.
It’s a big project I am undertaking, but it is bringing me much joy.
Early memories of trains are sketchy. There are vague memories of going to Newburyport to pick up an aunt who would come in on the train from Lynn. I don’t think passenger service went further than Newburyport back in the 60’s, although freight trains were fairly popular. My brother and I learned to count at railroad crossings when my parents asked us to count the cars of the passing train. There were crossings in East Kingston and it was easy to tell, because of the shape of a few buildings and their closeness to the tracks, that at one time, trains stopped here. There were crossings in Exeter and an abandoned train depot was next to the variety store we frequented as high school students. I never walked the tracks, nor did I ever go to a swimming hole where kids jumped from a bridge, although hearing them talk about it sounded exciting. I remember crossing tracks that seemed to go on forever either way when we went to the creek where my dad would dig clams and we’d go down river to fish.
Outside of those incidences, trains were a dull mystery to me. As I grew older, sighting became less frequent and once I was able to drive places myself, I noticed more empty tracks, places where tracks were removed, and building that were once stations falling to ruin. Still, it was years before my interest began to peak and I don’t know what set me off.
“It’s sad about the trains,” became a mantra that made my friends chuckle. Perhaps it was that a way of life was disappearing that matched a sadness in my soul. Maybe it was a growing awareness in the landscape around me. Whatever it was, my interest rose.
I don’t know why, but I fell in love with an old building near the Newfields-Newmarket line (I recently found out it was called Rockingham Station.) I stopped one time to take pictures which surprised me that I would want to photograph something so run-down and dilapidated. There was a deep inner unexplainable sorrow over this piece of history.
And so it went on. I continued the “It’s sad about the trains” statements, but never did any further research. I did, however, go on a couple of scenic train rides on the Conway train and once I took the family on the Cog Railway and a couple of trips out west showed me that other states have more active railroads many of which are massive, many tracked systems.
Recently my interest was again sparked with the chance to enter photographs for a show and now that I am doing more research, I am amazed at what the railroad system once meant to the state and industry. Yes, there is still sadness as the decline in industry meant the decline in rail use and people desiring individual transportation just about put an end to train travel in the state. However, there are active lines in NH, Maine, and Vermont. Amtrak re-opened the lines between Boston and Portland, I don’t think they ever stopped service along the Connecticut River, and there are a few scenic trains running.
I am now on a journey to photograph rails and stations mostly in NH but also across the border into Vermont. Mostly I am fascinated by areas no longer in use. The architecture of the old stations and depots are fascinating. Textures, patterns, and lines in wood, brick, or stone are intriguing. I am pleased to see the Rails to Trails programs touching a piece of history and allowing the public the opportunity to see the beauty of our state and some towns are actually fixing up old buildings to be used as businesses or museums.
The active stations and areas are also amazing. I am pleased to have the opportunity to photograph trains in motion and after the solitude and bit of sadness with abandoned sections, it’s refreshing to witness the activity around the in-use stations.
It’s a big project I am undertaking, but it is bringing me much joy.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
June 27, 2010
Searching for Concord Rails
I’d never been down on Commercial Street in Concord, but I’d seen the train tracks from Rte 393. As I needed some supplies at Staples, I figured to take the opportunity to take some photos. I was surprised to find there was more to this section of Concord than I originally thought. As I came down from the highway, I first went to where I could see lots of tracks. Nothing grabbed my attention, so I went the other way past the Courtyard Marriott.
I avoided the new-looking, fancy buildings although I wondered what these structures replaced. Taking a right, I explored the area along Horseshoe Pond. At an intersection was a sign saying, “Discovery Center.” What a minute. I always thought Fort Eddy Road was a dead end. Straight ahead, Commercial Street was a dead end. Hmmm.
I decided to see where that road ended as my goal was train tracks. The road narrowed as I passed through a residential section and on the right were tracks and then an interesting old wooden bridge. The tracks were built up and I was intrigued. The end of the road was Brochu Nursery.
Parking off to the side, I climbed the embankment to the rails. The track ran through the nursery on raised dike-like beds. Seemed funny but I guess it’s because of river flooding. I noticed a trestle in the distance and after taking a couple photos from this vantage point, I decided to ask permission to drive out to the trestle. The man gave his okay then added that over the weekend old trains from Tilton had come down for a show. That would have been interesting.
I drove to the end of the nursery but did not drive up to the trestle as I did not want my vehicle in the way. This was a lovely structure stretching across the Merrimac River. I took quite a few pictures but did not venture out onto the bridge as there were no trespassing signs… plus I didn’t dare.
Leaving the nursery, I decided to take the road towards the Discovery Center. I found that this way meandered through a college campus eventually connecting to Fort Eddy Road. I had learned something new about Concord while taking the opportunity to get some fabulous pictures. It was a happy day.
Searching for Concord Rails
I’d never been down on Commercial Street in Concord, but I’d seen the train tracks from Rte 393. As I needed some supplies at Staples, I figured to take the opportunity to take some photos. I was surprised to find there was more to this section of Concord than I originally thought. As I came down from the highway, I first went to where I could see lots of tracks. Nothing grabbed my attention, so I went the other way past the Courtyard Marriott.
I avoided the new-looking, fancy buildings although I wondered what these structures replaced. Taking a right, I explored the area along Horseshoe Pond. At an intersection was a sign saying, “Discovery Center.” What a minute. I always thought Fort Eddy Road was a dead end. Straight ahead, Commercial Street was a dead end. Hmmm.
I decided to see where that road ended as my goal was train tracks. The road narrowed as I passed through a residential section and on the right were tracks and then an interesting old wooden bridge. The tracks were built up and I was intrigued. The end of the road was Brochu Nursery.
Parking off to the side, I climbed the embankment to the rails. The track ran through the nursery on raised dike-like beds. Seemed funny but I guess it’s because of river flooding. I noticed a trestle in the distance and after taking a couple photos from this vantage point, I decided to ask permission to drive out to the trestle. The man gave his okay then added that over the weekend old trains from Tilton had come down for a show. That would have been interesting.
I drove to the end of the nursery but did not drive up to the trestle as I did not want my vehicle in the way. This was a lovely structure stretching across the Merrimac River. I took quite a few pictures but did not venture out onto the bridge as there were no trespassing signs… plus I didn’t dare.
Leaving the nursery, I decided to take the road towards the Discovery Center. I found that this way meandered through a college campus eventually connecting to Fort Eddy Road. I had learned something new about Concord while taking the opportunity to get some fabulous pictures. It was a happy day.
June 27,2010
Railroad Tracks Near the Hannah Dustin Memorial
Once again I set off. I’d come across some old photos I’d taken at the Hannah Dustin Memorial Site four years ago and as my photography skills are improved and I now use digital, I wanted to take new pictures. The morning was foggy, just the way I like it. I didn’t want to go to Concord, then up 93/4, so I looked at Map Quest for an alternative route and that took me through Warner, up School Street to Pumpkin Hill Road and onto Warner Road, Rte 127 and finally Rte 4. It was nice to see different sights as I’d not been that way.
I made a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts in Boscawen and from there it wasn’t far to the memorial site. The fog had lifted by the time I reached the parking lot. Years back, Rte 4 had been built up to accommodate a better bridge crossing the Merrimac River. The older section was down an embankment. I was struck by the humidity as I got out of the truck. I grabbed the camera and started down the path between cow vetch, yellow hawkweed, and milkweed.. My senses were filled with a wonderful scent. There was an interesting row of cedar trees along the train tracks and a few yards further stood the monument.
I love that I can take lots of pictures and experiment with different angles. I looked up the track and down the track (though I really don’t know which way was which.) Sometimes I walked between the rails and when there was too much overgrowth, I walked a rock-filled path beside the tracks. My goal was the trestle bridge.
This is a beautiful area where the Contoocook River merges with the Merrimac. From the Contoocook came the sounds of rushing water as it tumbled over rocks, but the Merrimac side was very peaceful. Chipmunks and gray squirrels often ran in front of me along the rails or across them. Catbirds serenaded me and behind to the left, traffic on Rte 4 could be heard. A great blue heron searched the shoreline.
I took straight shots, angled shots, and sometimes I bent close to the ground. I studied the angles on the bridge and bolts on the rails. I took pictures of knot holes in the railroad ties and the pond lilies in the river below. A photograph of the old track switch crank was also taken.
The trestle bridge was bit scary to cross. I could see the waters far below between the planks. There wasn’t a railing and one slip or stumble could send me into the depths. I took my time and was extra careful of my footing.
Two tracks split off the main on the other side of the bridge. One disappeared into the overgrowth after a few yards and the other swung out to a blue building which, to me, didn’t look old. That and the fact there was trash around the grounds made me decide not to take pictures. The tracks however were fascinating. Here was another study in angles and curves.
Stories and questions ran through me and I envisioned providing text along with the pictures. I kept reminding myself that the picture must tell its own story. Still, I am always interested in more information.
By this point, I was hot and sticky. I tried to sit down on the rail to get a shot of an interesting tidbit on the ground and promptly fell over backwards. Oops. Good thing no one was around. I finished those pictures and stood up. It was time to head back.
I had taken some pictures of an old factory-type building across the way. I drove back a bit on Rte 4 until I found a road that went in that direction, then a side road that led directly past the old buildings. Perhaps this might have been part of the original Rte 4, but there were also remnants of train tracks going to the place. I stopped and took pictures of windows capturing reflections, caved in sections of the structures, doors, and smoke stacks. Part of this might have been an old tannery. Did I read something about that?
Looking back, I wish I had dared walk around the building to explore further the old rails.
I took side streets heading towards Concord and found myself on the front side of that blue building. Oh, nice. This side looked cleaner than the back side, so I took a picture before heading onward to my next adventure.
Railroad Tracks Near the Hannah Dustin Memorial
Once again I set off. I’d come across some old photos I’d taken at the Hannah Dustin Memorial Site four years ago and as my photography skills are improved and I now use digital, I wanted to take new pictures. The morning was foggy, just the way I like it. I didn’t want to go to Concord, then up 93/4, so I looked at Map Quest for an alternative route and that took me through Warner, up School Street to Pumpkin Hill Road and onto Warner Road, Rte 127 and finally Rte 4. It was nice to see different sights as I’d not been that way.
I made a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts in Boscawen and from there it wasn’t far to the memorial site. The fog had lifted by the time I reached the parking lot. Years back, Rte 4 had been built up to accommodate a better bridge crossing the Merrimac River. The older section was down an embankment. I was struck by the humidity as I got out of the truck. I grabbed the camera and started down the path between cow vetch, yellow hawkweed, and milkweed.. My senses were filled with a wonderful scent. There was an interesting row of cedar trees along the train tracks and a few yards further stood the monument.
I love that I can take lots of pictures and experiment with different angles. I looked up the track and down the track (though I really don’t know which way was which.) Sometimes I walked between the rails and when there was too much overgrowth, I walked a rock-filled path beside the tracks. My goal was the trestle bridge.
This is a beautiful area where the Contoocook River merges with the Merrimac. From the Contoocook came the sounds of rushing water as it tumbled over rocks, but the Merrimac side was very peaceful. Chipmunks and gray squirrels often ran in front of me along the rails or across them. Catbirds serenaded me and behind to the left, traffic on Rte 4 could be heard. A great blue heron searched the shoreline.
I took straight shots, angled shots, and sometimes I bent close to the ground. I studied the angles on the bridge and bolts on the rails. I took pictures of knot holes in the railroad ties and the pond lilies in the river below. A photograph of the old track switch crank was also taken.
The trestle bridge was bit scary to cross. I could see the waters far below between the planks. There wasn’t a railing and one slip or stumble could send me into the depths. I took my time and was extra careful of my footing.
Two tracks split off the main on the other side of the bridge. One disappeared into the overgrowth after a few yards and the other swung out to a blue building which, to me, didn’t look old. That and the fact there was trash around the grounds made me decide not to take pictures. The tracks however were fascinating. Here was another study in angles and curves.
Stories and questions ran through me and I envisioned providing text along with the pictures. I kept reminding myself that the picture must tell its own story. Still, I am always interested in more information.
By this point, I was hot and sticky. I tried to sit down on the rail to get a shot of an interesting tidbit on the ground and promptly fell over backwards. Oops. Good thing no one was around. I finished those pictures and stood up. It was time to head back.
I had taken some pictures of an old factory-type building across the way. I drove back a bit on Rte 4 until I found a road that went in that direction, then a side road that led directly past the old buildings. Perhaps this might have been part of the original Rte 4, but there were also remnants of train tracks going to the place. I stopped and took pictures of windows capturing reflections, caved in sections of the structures, doors, and smoke stacks. Part of this might have been an old tannery. Did I read something about that?
Looking back, I wish I had dared walk around the building to explore further the old rails.
I took side streets heading towards Concord and found myself on the front side of that blue building. Oh, nice. This side looked cleaner than the back side, so I took a picture before heading onward to my next adventure.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
I was going through old photo albums today and in looking at the pictures taken back then with 35mm compared to what I do now with digital and the ability to edit my own pictures, I am amazed at how my photography has changed. Oh, I still take a lot of the same kinds of pictures, but I see angles, lines, and textures in a different way. I am more aware of the composition of the picture and I'm not just shooting a scene. I look at the subject from multiple positions.
These past couple of weeks, I've been experimenting with color curves. I still want my pictures to look real; like it was when I first saw the scene, however I've noticed sometimes that in the printing, the colors are not as vibrant. Now I am able to bring that brilliance onto the cards and paper.
I like being more in control of the outcome. It's nice that I can make the choice in how the picture evolves.
These past couple of weeks, I've been experimenting with color curves. I still want my pictures to look real; like it was when I first saw the scene, however I've noticed sometimes that in the printing, the colors are not as vibrant. Now I am able to bring that brilliance onto the cards and paper.
I like being more in control of the outcome. It's nice that I can make the choice in how the picture evolves.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I LOVE TAKING PICTURES AND ENJOY SHARING WHAT I FIND
I’ve been very busy trying to build an inventory for this summer’s art show. The items that sell the best are my notecards. I enjoy doing these; nothing fancy, just a photograph printed on the front of the matte card and a little blurb on the back with information about the picture or about the photography. I crop a lot of my pictures to get close (someday I’d love to buy one of those expensive zoom lenses to get better close-ups of wildlife.) However, in cropping, I often cannot print a larger picture. Still, the notecard will show the delicacy of wings, the deep pool of eyes, or the intricacy of a flower petal.
I’m also doing a greeting card that is a little bigger than the notecards. These are “framed cards” in which a 4x6 glossy photo is inserted. With these, I have to decide between a black or white framed card. Either color adds something to the picture. I put an information label on the backs of these.
There are 5x7 prints, too, mounted and matted as 8x10s. I never know whether to advertise these as 5x7 for the photo size or 8x10 for the frame that would be needed. Occasionally, I’ll do an 8x10 print mounted and matted to fit an 11x14 frame. Again, I put an About the Picture label on the back.
My biggest items are charcoal landscape drawings. These are of a variety of sizes depending on how I cut the paper, but I am finding that my favorite size is under 11x14. These are almost always matted in black with a thin black frame. I like to keep the frame simple so the focus will be on the drawing.
I take pictures of a variety of subjects. It’s hard to say what are the favorites. Old barns are special as I am drawn to the textures in the wood, how it has weathered and decayed. Windows are intriguing because of reflections, distortion in the glass, or missing panes. I like getting angles on doors depending on light and shadow. Flowers are extremely fascinating because of the vibrancy of color and when I can crop close to see tiny details, I am amazed. I’d never looked so close to a flower. Wildlife, birds, pets… so much to see; cute faces, beady eyes, feathers, paws and claws, etc. I also like old, rusty bits and pieces, things that I find on the ground, foggy scenes… basically anything in nature.
I’m not into “posed” photography though I like taking pictures of people, too. The character of a person’s face is beautiful and I especially like to photograph older people. I don’t want someone “smiling for the camera” or even looking at the camera and I won’t keep a picture of someone if it isn’t a good picture. Of course, I enjoy the grandchildren the best. A couple of them are naturals when it comes to having their picture taken. The moment I pick up the camera, they immediately go into a pose. That’s fun. They’re fun.
I love what I do and I never leave home without my camera. I’ll stop often to photograph old abandoned buildings, wildlife, or flowers. Every day is an adventure because I never know what I’m going to find. Life is good!
I’ve been very busy trying to build an inventory for this summer’s art show. The items that sell the best are my notecards. I enjoy doing these; nothing fancy, just a photograph printed on the front of the matte card and a little blurb on the back with information about the picture or about the photography. I crop a lot of my pictures to get close (someday I’d love to buy one of those expensive zoom lenses to get better close-ups of wildlife.) However, in cropping, I often cannot print a larger picture. Still, the notecard will show the delicacy of wings, the deep pool of eyes, or the intricacy of a flower petal.
I’m also doing a greeting card that is a little bigger than the notecards. These are “framed cards” in which a 4x6 glossy photo is inserted. With these, I have to decide between a black or white framed card. Either color adds something to the picture. I put an information label on the backs of these.
There are 5x7 prints, too, mounted and matted as 8x10s. I never know whether to advertise these as 5x7 for the photo size or 8x10 for the frame that would be needed. Occasionally, I’ll do an 8x10 print mounted and matted to fit an 11x14 frame. Again, I put an About the Picture label on the back.
My biggest items are charcoal landscape drawings. These are of a variety of sizes depending on how I cut the paper, but I am finding that my favorite size is under 11x14. These are almost always matted in black with a thin black frame. I like to keep the frame simple so the focus will be on the drawing.
I take pictures of a variety of subjects. It’s hard to say what are the favorites. Old barns are special as I am drawn to the textures in the wood, how it has weathered and decayed. Windows are intriguing because of reflections, distortion in the glass, or missing panes. I like getting angles on doors depending on light and shadow. Flowers are extremely fascinating because of the vibrancy of color and when I can crop close to see tiny details, I am amazed. I’d never looked so close to a flower. Wildlife, birds, pets… so much to see; cute faces, beady eyes, feathers, paws and claws, etc. I also like old, rusty bits and pieces, things that I find on the ground, foggy scenes… basically anything in nature.
I’m not into “posed” photography though I like taking pictures of people, too. The character of a person’s face is beautiful and I especially like to photograph older people. I don’t want someone “smiling for the camera” or even looking at the camera and I won’t keep a picture of someone if it isn’t a good picture. Of course, I enjoy the grandchildren the best. A couple of them are naturals when it comes to having their picture taken. The moment I pick up the camera, they immediately go into a pose. That’s fun. They’re fun.
I love what I do and I never leave home without my camera. I’ll stop often to photograph old abandoned buildings, wildlife, or flowers. Every day is an adventure because I never know what I’m going to find. Life is good!
Saturday, March 27, 2010
PHOTOGRAPHS IN BLACK AND WHITE
The Hillsborough Area Artisans are hosting a black and white show/contest within the group whose work will be on display at the Gallery at Well Sweep in June. I offered to take pictures of some art work. Janett creates unusual designs in fiber art and she crocheted a beautiful black shawl with white trim and flowers. However, when I downloaded the pictures onto my computer, I found the white flowers came out without any detail.
This reminded me that I have trouble with any pictures of white flowers. Lilies of the valley and the double white lilacs in my yard are not shown in my albums because I am not happy with any photo that I take of them. The pictures end up looking overexposed.
With the purchase of a new computer, my old editing program would not work with Windows 7 and in my research, I found a better one and it was free. PhotoScape. This is a great program and it’s easy to use. One of my favorite features is the back light button and I thought this might be the answer to my white flower problem. It’s not. Back lighting causes the white to turn yellow or brown-ish and adjusting light and contrast further removes detail.
I don’t use an external flash. I seldom use the built-in flash as I try to keep things in natural light and even when I plan a shoot, I still operate on an in-the-moment mode. Most of the time, this works and I am pleased with the results. However, this photographing of white objects is a concern. Perhaps it’s the case of using an external flash—I don’t know.
Any suggestions to photographing white flowers will be appreciated. Thank-you.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Yesterday I received a phone call from my dentist’s receptionist. “Bonnie is gone.” What? I was in shock and the more Darlene spoke, the more tears fell. Bonnie and I had a lot in common; single post- menopausal women, musicians (she played cello and I, Native American flute,) and artists (she did water colors and I, charcoal landscape drawing, poetry, and photography.) I loved our twice a year conversations and now there is an empty place in my heart.
“We have to clean our garages,” Darlene said that Bonnie told her two days before, “because if something happens to us, ‘they’ will bring in a dumpster. Two days after Bonnie’s passing, a big dumpster was in the yard.”I’ve often thought this very thing as my family hasn’t always been interested in my work and art. I know that much of the stuff that brings me such joy will be trash to others. The years of my life, the heartaches and joys and accomplishments recorded on the pages of my journals will not hold anyone else’s attention. Some of my “unusual” art pieces won’t be of any use. The “someday” project bits lying in wait will certainly make it into a dumpster or burn pile. Books, works in progress, and supplies will also be tossed.
I don’t want to push my beliefs and passions onto those unwilling to enjoy this part of the journey. I can accept that family does not share my interests. They are busy with their own and that’s okay. There are those out there who have bought books or pictures and those who like reading my poems and articles. I always figured that if one person gets something out of one of my pictures or if I touch the heart of another, then I have done my job.
This does not mean that I am giving up. I love what I do and the joy bubbles over. I am excited about my endeavors and every day is an adventure. I experiment with mediums. I explore ways to share my findings. This is Passion, and the drive makes me dance (at least on the inside.) I will continue to do my work with the realization that most of it will probably disappear in time. I will keep on taking pictures and drawing. I’ll write poetry and let my emotions carry my fingers across the keyboard. I’ll play my flutes and watch the birds. My heart is full of joy.
I don’t want to push my beliefs and passions onto those unwilling to enjoy this part of the journey. I can accept that family does not share my interests. They are busy with their own and that’s okay. There are those out there who have bought books or pictures and those who like reading my poems and articles. I always figured that if one person gets something out of one of my pictures or if I touch the heart of another, then I have done my job.
This does not mean that I am giving up. I love what I do and the joy bubbles over. I am excited about my endeavors and every day is an adventure. I experiment with mediums. I explore ways to share my findings. This is Passion, and the drive makes me dance (at least on the inside.) I will continue to do my work with the realization that most of it will probably disappear in time. I will keep on taking pictures and drawing. I’ll write poetry and let my emotions carry my fingers across the keyboard. I’ll play my flutes and watch the birds. My heart is full of joy.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I am continuing the school theme going back even further. I remember less of grade school but the following comes to forefront:
There were two grades per classroom as the class ahead of mine only had about 6 kids. My class had 10 to 14, I think. Grades 1 and 2 were taught by Mrs. Lambert, grades 3 and 4 by Mrs. Holmstrom, and 5 and 6 by Mrs. Prescott. I got my first pair of glasses while in Mrs. Holmstrom’s classes because I couldn’t see the blackboard clearly. Mrs. Prescott gave me my first poor mark to “take me down a peg because I was too much of a smarty pants.” Or so my mom always said. The other kids didn’t like me much because I was smarter than most of them.
I remember hating recess in the winter. We were all made to go outside and back then, girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks. We had to wear dresses and skirts. Kathie and I would huddle in a corner of the building out of the wind. The boys called Kathie, “Dirty A” and I never knew why. They weren’t very nice to either of us.
Warm weather found us jump roping or playing at horses. I loved horses, wanted to be a horse so I could run free.
Marlene was my best friend. I loved Marlene. She was beautiful. There’s no recollection of Donna, her step sister, who was our age but I remember visiting them at home as our parents were friends. By the end of elementary school, though, Marlene wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she began hanging with the girls who all considered me from the wrong end of town.
One time, Cathy Collins came to school with a coloring book based on a Disney movie. I don’t recall the movie but it was about white horses. Cathy let everyone color in her book but me. I didn’t want to color the horses white.
I remember drawing on the blackboard--- anatomy, astronomy, animals, etc. I’d copy pictures from books.
I got accolades for reading “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” because it was such an adult book for a child.
I remember having a crush on Tom Henry… only recall his presence for about one year. I hit him with a snowball then was embarrassed for laughing over it.
Looking back, I think even then I was different. Guess everyone else knew it before I because I never knew why others didn’t like me. Then again, I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to play the games everyone else played… too childish for me. I didn’t like to gossip. I didn’t play with dolls nor was I interested in girlish pursuits or conversation (if you can call girl talk conversation, ha ha.)
These are the names I remember: Doug Dunn, Kathie Brown, Marlene Cleeve, Debbie Burdick, Cathy Collins, John Tuthill, Charlie Kimball, Diana Swift (her mother later became the Kindergarten teacher of my sons,) and there were the Lufkin twins… Diane, Donna?? I can’t remember her brother’s name.
Oh yeah, there was David Kuegal. We drew names for the class Christmas party and he got mine. He gave me note paper, the kind old ladies used. I cried. All the other kids got cool kid stuff. He snapped, “At least I gave you something nice!” He was hurt by my tears. Now I can see that as a good gift for someone like me but back then I didn’t realize that although I was much older mentally than others my age there was still that part of me that was a child. (David was killed in an auto accident in high school.)
That’s it for my elementary school memories.
There were two grades per classroom as the class ahead of mine only had about 6 kids. My class had 10 to 14, I think. Grades 1 and 2 were taught by Mrs. Lambert, grades 3 and 4 by Mrs. Holmstrom, and 5 and 6 by Mrs. Prescott. I got my first pair of glasses while in Mrs. Holmstrom’s classes because I couldn’t see the blackboard clearly. Mrs. Prescott gave me my first poor mark to “take me down a peg because I was too much of a smarty pants.” Or so my mom always said. The other kids didn’t like me much because I was smarter than most of them.
I remember hating recess in the winter. We were all made to go outside and back then, girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks. We had to wear dresses and skirts. Kathie and I would huddle in a corner of the building out of the wind. The boys called Kathie, “Dirty A” and I never knew why. They weren’t very nice to either of us.
Warm weather found us jump roping or playing at horses. I loved horses, wanted to be a horse so I could run free.
Marlene was my best friend. I loved Marlene. She was beautiful. There’s no recollection of Donna, her step sister, who was our age but I remember visiting them at home as our parents were friends. By the end of elementary school, though, Marlene wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she began hanging with the girls who all considered me from the wrong end of town.
One time, Cathy Collins came to school with a coloring book based on a Disney movie. I don’t recall the movie but it was about white horses. Cathy let everyone color in her book but me. I didn’t want to color the horses white.
I remember drawing on the blackboard--- anatomy, astronomy, animals, etc. I’d copy pictures from books.
I got accolades for reading “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” because it was such an adult book for a child.
I remember having a crush on Tom Henry… only recall his presence for about one year. I hit him with a snowball then was embarrassed for laughing over it.
Looking back, I think even then I was different. Guess everyone else knew it before I because I never knew why others didn’t like me. Then again, I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to play the games everyone else played… too childish for me. I didn’t like to gossip. I didn’t play with dolls nor was I interested in girlish pursuits or conversation (if you can call girl talk conversation, ha ha.)
These are the names I remember: Doug Dunn, Kathie Brown, Marlene Cleeve, Debbie Burdick, Cathy Collins, John Tuthill, Charlie Kimball, Diana Swift (her mother later became the Kindergarten teacher of my sons,) and there were the Lufkin twins… Diane, Donna?? I can’t remember her brother’s name.
Oh yeah, there was David Kuegal. We drew names for the class Christmas party and he got mine. He gave me note paper, the kind old ladies used. I cried. All the other kids got cool kid stuff. He snapped, “At least I gave you something nice!” He was hurt by my tears. Now I can see that as a good gift for someone like me but back then I didn’t realize that although I was much older mentally than others my age there was still that part of me that was a child. (David was killed in an auto accident in high school.)
That’s it for my elementary school memories.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
One thing about having so many “hobbies” is that it is hard to choose which to work on, and when I bounce from one project to another, some things get left by the wayside or undone. I operate on feeling, what I feel like doing and today I may do charcoal drawing but tomorrow the feelings may lead me to work on photos. I have many unfinished projects.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to be a writer and an artist. For awhile my writing was on hold outside of an occasional article and daily journaling. I needed to concentrate on the art work and build an inventory. The summer months turned to fall and now it is winter and it’s a struggle to find my writing feet. The spark isn’t here.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
Friday, January 08, 2010
I accomplished a few things yesterday. I ordered a supply of bags from clearbags.com. I use them to protect note cards, photo greeting cards, and poetry cards. The site also offers a 50 piece pack of 5x7 matte photo paper for $3 which I thought was a very good deal. I also ordered yarn. The last time I checked Michaels and Wal-Mart, they were limited in their colors and there’s a particular brand of yarn I like to use for the scarves I knit. I checked the website and found 60 colors.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Somehow I have lost a connection within myself. For a person who had to write in order to feel alive, I am dry as of late. I still journal every day but that is only two pages these past few weeks. Oh, I still do some articles as I write for the snowmobile club and submit an article or two to sunacom.com e-newsletter, but the more creative writing style of mine fell asleep.
I promised my writing group that I’d be back on board after the summer and fall of doing a few art shows but I’ve not come up with anything and now another week is over and group meets on Saturday and there’s not even an inkling of stirring in my writer’s soul.
Talked to a friend yesterday who said she checked my blog and was surprised to find no recent writings, which makes me wonder about what’s going on within me. If I let myself think and sink down into my feelings, I realize I put up barriers to block feeling. With all the drama around my mother’s failing health, I am trying very hard to keep myself in check. My emotions run rampant in worry, despair, anger, and depression. The only way to keep any semblance of sanity and not lose myself in negativity is to block feeling… and I can’t write if I don’t feel.
That doesn’t mean I’m successful at this ploy. I’m not writing nor am I doing other artwork besides a few photographs. My belief system holds that to be alive, you must be creative and I’ve shut the creative side down. Creativity comes from feelings and if I am blocking feelings, I am unable to ignite the spark and right now I don’t know if I am willing to blow on the ashes.
If I fan the flames and the creative fires roar within, then I’ll be susceptible to the pain. It’s an immense struggle to maintain calm and I often do not do very well. I give in to the anger when it roars and then I despair fearing I will never find compassion for my mother. That’s not fair to her, nor is it fair to me.
I shut down. The entire month of December, I gave in to the depression. That’s why I got sick. It was a wake-up call and even in this moment, I am not sure what I’m going to do about it. I’ve always felt I had to block myself off from my mother and I realize that the years of living together went well while my aunt was present to run interference. I remember my mother trying to run my aunt’s life and I was glad I could get away. With my aunt in a home, I am the one being run and I fight it tooth and nail even though I give in more often than not.
I need to fight the despair. Ma’s personal issues don’t have to drag me down. She chose the isolation and although I value privacy and solitude, I also recognize the importance of going out in the world. It’s easy to stay home if I don’t have to go anywhere but it’s necessary to push myself to go out. A lot of inspiration comes from being off on an adventure… even if it’s just going to get groceries.
Yes, I know I can blame my mother for a lot of things, but the reality is that I am also the one who chooses. I chose to be here with her in her decline. I decide to stay home or go out. I am the one who makes my decisions and it is time to become more active in my personal and art life.
Let the New Year begin!
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