Up Early Again

The only good thing about getting up too damned early was that I got to see the wispy morning clouds tinted peach-y pink  as the sun rose.

A pair of Bluejays came by to partake of the peanuts.  The one on the left is the fledgling that was begging for food the other day.







I had my weekly trainer session and the simplest thing I did was the sumo squat with a 25# weight.









 



This afternoon I sewed up the denim Dress no. 1.  In honor of the nostalgia of old Levi jeans I lined the neck and armholes with orange bias tape.



On my way home from the Y I stopped at the quilt shop nearby and, you're not going to believe it, I got out only having bought a box of straight pins.  No fabric.

15 August--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.

                 True to our agreement, Samara and I spent the Friday after Thanksgiving looking at our paintings and deciding which ones to enter in the Art League’s show in Madison.  We stripped all my work out of the studio and used the gallery wall to line up paintings for our own juried show.

Samara went first.  Seeing her work displayed all together made me appreciate her talent more and, judging by her reaction, made her much more critical of her work.  “Oh my God, Gail, how can I choose?” she said.  “Seeing them all together like this I can see what’s wrong with every one of them.  I think I hate them all.”

                I put my arm over her shoulders.  “Don’t be silly.  They’re not all terrible.”

                “Thanks a lot.”  She poked me with her elbow.  “You’re some friend.”

               “Hey, don’t get your undies in a bunch.  My turn’s next.”  I stepped back another step.  “Let’s do this.  First take down all the ones you really don’t like.  The ones that didn’t turn out the way you had planned.”

                She moved forward, hands outstretched, saying over her shoulder, “Shouldn’t I pick out the ones I like best?”

               “I don’t think so.  We’re all so eager to criticize our work, maybe taking out the ones we don’t like will leave the good ones behind.  Give it a shot.”

                “Okay.”  Her hands were a blur as she pulled down nearly half the canvases.  She stepped back again.  “Huh.”

                “What?” I asked.  I was squinting at the remaining paintings.

                “It worked.  Taking those out,” she motioned to the drift of canvases littered around the room, “makes what’s still up there look better.”

                 “Ha, I was right.”  I stuck my tongue out at her.

                   “Not very nice, Gail.  Granny says if you stick out your tongue, a bird will come and poop on it.”

            “Your granny’s a wise woman, but I don’t think there’s any danger of a bird flying in here today.”  I looked out the window at the dusting of snow that had arrived the day before.  “Most of the smart birds have flown south.”

            “True, but I’m not taking any chances.”

            We spent the next hour debating which of Samara’s paintings was art show worthy.  When we’d whittled the choices down to three, we checked the rules of the contest and discovered that we could each enter two.  It didn’t make choosing the last one to remove any easier, but it was a heck of a lot easier than deciding on just one.

            Once Samara had made her final decision we pulled out a couple of simple black frames to see how they would look.  It amazed us that the addition of those thin strips of wood made the paintings just pop off the wall.  “Excellent choices.”

            She took them down.  “You’re up next,” she said, a little malicious glee coloring her voice.  “Don’t worry, Gail, it only feels a little like standing in front of a firing squad.”

            “What a pal,” I said, as I moved to begin hanging what I considered my best work.

            When I stepped back I understood how Samara had felt.  Too many of my paintings looked amateurish, poorly executed, and, well, hideous.  “Oh my.”  I buried my face in my hands.  “These are terrible.”

            I heard her rich belly laugh.  “What did you just tell me?  Oh, yeah, ‘they’re not all terrible.’  Uncover your face and get to work.”

            It was an effort to pull my hands away from my eyes and turn to face my shame.  I stood there frozen with the agony of my terribleness.

            A soft voice came from behind my shoulder.  “Go ahead, Gail, take down the ones you really hate.”

            I did and, just like for Samara, the remaining paintings didn’t look so bad after all.  “That’s better.”

            Another hour passed while we debated and eliminated.  Finally I was left with one of trilliums in the woods at The Clearing (that Laurel had helped me with) and the other of a broken down fence section with orange daylilies nodding over it.  We slipped them into frames and, just like with Samara’s paintings, they came alive.

            Samara turned to me.  “Well, this was an exhausting afternoon, wasn’t it?”

            I nodded my agreement.  “It sure was.  Humbling, too.”

            “Yep.  But I think we’ve got a chance of getting a prize.”

            “Do you really think so?  I was just happy being brave enough to enter.  Winning any sort of prize would be beyond hope for me.”

            Her whole little body tensed.  “Oh, no you don’t.  You’re not going to jinx our chances with any negativity.  We are going to win something, even if it’s just Honorable Mention.”

            I had to smile at my fierce young friend.  “Yes, General.”  I snapped her a salute.  “I promise to keep a positive thought.  Even when my knees knock and palms sweat.”

            We went right into the kitchen and filled out the entry forms.  We checked the rules again to make sure we had marked our work as the guidelines demanded.  Then we wrapped up the four paintings, taped the entries on each, and loaded them in Samara’s car so she could take them back to Madison with her.

            We stood in the freezing dusk beside Samara’s old car to say goodbye.  “Listen,” I said, “I want to pay for your gas back to school.”

            “Don’t be silly.  I have plenty of gas.  Plus Mom and Granny each slip me a twenty when they think the other one’s not looking.  But thanks.”

            “No, really, I want…”

            Samara stood firm.  “If you run inside to get money, I’ll drive away.  I will.”

            “Ha, fooled you.”  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my own twenty and put it in her pocket.  “I knew you’d refuse so I brought it with me.  By taking my paintings back with you, you’re saving me the hassle and cost of shipping them.  Please take it?”

            Knowing I’d won, she said, “Well, if you put it like that, I can’t refuse.”  She hugged me.  “It’s been a great day.  I love you, Gail.”

            Suddenly I had a lump in my throat.  “I love you too, honey.  Have a safe drive back.  Tell your Mom I said hi.”  I waved until her taillights receded in the distance.

Then I hurried to bundle myself up in Bert’s old barn coat, poured a glass of wine, and sat on the porch while I watched the sun set.  I used a marker to make a stripe on the railing, on the slat below I wrote the date and “entered art contest.”  I felt scared and excited.    

Falling asleep that night, I listened to the creaking of the old house’s bones as the heat from the furnace warmed them.  My last thought was that sometimes I really missed hearing the sleeping boy sounds from upstairs.

I'm falling asleep. I've got to wrap this up and hit the hay.  Waking up at 5 AM is just not enough sleep.
--Barbara