My Dad's 80 Today

I just rang my parents because I was too tired to do more than grunt when Mom rang on Monday. I had at the back of my mind that it's Dad's birthday today, too.

While their phone was ringing, I saw in my Outlook calendar that Dad was born in 1927 - that makes him 80 today.

Lordy. 80.

Too Much Information, Woman!!!

This post is not for the sensitive. You have been warned.

I had mammogram and a visit to the proctologist (I think the office sign said something like endoscopy-ologist??) today; I'm booked in for a colonoscopy two weeks from today. There's nothing wrong with me in that department that we know of, but my Dad was diagnosed with colon cancer almost two years ago, back then and we three siblings vowed to get ourselves checked. Two years on, I'm the first of us to actually do it. Don't worry, I won't give you a details report about it, unless something hilarious happens.

I didn't realize it costs so much money to get old!

Wellington, Y'all

I'm so grumpy I'm almost laughing at myself at the same time being worked up and almost teary still.

I worked until 11.30PM Wednesday, on the one piece intended for the museum shop. I was quite tired by the time we finally got to the airport at 7AM, and rather unhappy I had to refringe the said piece at Trish's house until around 1PM on Thursday.

We finally got to the gallery at around 1.30 only to have this Blondie chew my head off, her face inches away from mine. I didn't know who she was, but I had to get in to see the curators because I promised I would. One of the curators told me one or more artist/s fussed quite a lot the previous day and had things moved/changed, etc., delaying the hanging. My favorite Tapa piece was removed from the exhibition as a result. I was disappointed, but hey, I'm sure Anna did her very best, and I didn't want to cause a fuss, so I left it at that. I saw Handsome Hugh at the top of the stairs as we were leaving, but I wasn't taking a chance Blondie having another go at me, so we left.

We arrived at the museum at around 2.15 for a 3PM appointment, we had a coffee, and I approached the shop at 2.55; the manager was in a meeting. Clearly he couldn't be bothered seeing me (and apparently another person), because it was after 4.30 by the time he finished the earlier meeting. And though he was an affable enough guy, the numbers he was talking substantiated the suspicion I've had for a few years; the museum used to have a good selection of handwoven scarves, but suddenly, about four years ago, they disappeared and mass-produced stuff appeared. This is the most popular museum in the country, but I think I'm not the right kind of "supplier" they want. And he didn't want the one I finished the previous day; these things happen.

Friday, I really, really wanted to go to the gallery again, but the thought of Blondie kept me away. So I went to a 10AM meeting with a Japanese owner of a small gallery. He had told me when I made the appointment that he probably couldn't help me, but agreed to see me nevertheless. I almost cancelled the meeting, but I'm glad I went because he turned out to be a gentle soul and gave me a couple of other places I might approach and a few places not to. And I got to talk about my friend Megg Hewlett's felt work, and give him her card. Who knows, we might become friends!

The rest of Friday we walked up and down Lampton Quay photographing my favorite and no-longer favorite bookshops. Friday night I couldn't sleep at all, because every time I closed my eyes I saw Blondie's lips inches away from my face.

Saturday was, well, the official opening at 10.30 and the informal one at 3.30. Ben insisted I wear something I wove, so I wore the possum/merino/silk piece I finished on Thursday and walked from Thorndon to Queen's Wharf, about 20 minutes. I was sweating like a pig when I arrived, and quite nervous. Blondie tells me at the entrance I can't have another catalog because the curator gave me one on Thursday; I told her I gave mine to the museum shop guy, so I got a new one anyway. These things happen.

I saw my friend Kate first, and then Esther and Jimmy; Kate had work commitments and wasn't supposed to be able to make it, and E&J used to live in Nelson and work with Ben and we've missed them so it was great to catch up. And then someone told me I already had a red dot (a piece sold) so that was nice, too. I had a glimpse of Martin Rodgers, ex Nelson Arts Marketing head who started this whole thing, but didn't get to talk to him.

After the official opening, I had to take a break so we went to have lunch at one of our regular lunch places in town, and my eggs had a piece of plastic fork and eggshells in it. This is a reputable place, and in all the years we've been there nothing like that ever happened, so it was no big deal, and we told the manager so, but still, I could have done without that. Monib and Mina came for the 3.30 opening, and they are the kind of people who bring instant cheers to wherever they walk in, so seeing them was uplifting.

I find art openings awkward and I don't know what to do or to say, and I kept telling other people I didn't know what to do. Another exhibiting artist told me my piece/s were cluttering an area and it was a good thing some were removed. Huh? A spouse of another artist talked about the days she used to be a weaver, and while talking she picked up one of my pieces and folded it like a towel fresh out of a dryer. Of course no one was to touch the exhibited pieces. Do these things really happen?

The gallery was pretty empty by around 4PM, but I hung around because supposedly the opening was on until 5PM. I got to talk to one very nice gent in the morning who knew a bit about textiles, and a Canadian couple just before closing. And when asked about weaving, I don't sound like such an idiot, so I hope they had a good time talking to me. I left the gallery at 4.50, met up with Trish and Ben, and had a J&T in my hands by about 5.05PM. The rest of the weekend I was truly running on fume.

So what did the whole Welly experience mean to me? Of course I'm glad I was allowed to participate because it was the biggest and fanciest exhibit I've taken part in yet. I got to meet some more Nelson arts people, and caught up with friends. I know who bought my piece, and I really appreciate her appreciating what I make.

I also know that by the time any exhibition opens, I've passed the pieces I'm exhibiting and want to move on to the next thing. I've also discovered that some people have an effect of diminishing/thinning my art experience; it's not as simple as people who like my stuff enhance it and those who don't diminish it, but something about the artificial setting of art openings and the chatter tend to dilute my experience as an exhibitor as well as a viewer.

I've got to put a positive spin, or at least not as negative one, for my weaving blog, I reckon.

Oh, you'd like this; on our flight home, there was a draw, and I was told I won a pair of free tickets to the WOW Museum in Nelson. I thought maybe we'll go, maybe we'll give it to Trish's parents. Monday night when I was finally unpacking, I found it it was a two-for-the-price-of-one, to be used by the end of next weekend. I'm not complaining; these things happen.

And We're Off

We're due at the airport in 100 minutes, and I still haven't packed. I'll tell you how the thing went when we get back after the weekend. You all have a good one.

Pacific Tapa

Just between you and me, if I hear myself say "Re:fine" once more, I'll scream. It's just that the exhibit I'm involved with (in a very small way) after that is held in a gallery called... "Refinery".

Thank you, thank you, thank you. If by any chance you're curious to see more, here.

What is This Song??

I've been going mad trying to find out the title of this song. The chorus goes something like:

"I look at love (life?) from both sides now,
from up and down, and still somehow,
It's life's illusions (??) I recall.
I really don't know how, at all."

I used to sing this at the top of my lungs when I was around 13. I always thought this was from the musical Hair, but today I went to the Hair lyrics site to no avail. Does it ring a bell?

You may or may not want to know this, but it included in an album, "Hello, The Osmond Brothers", an album that came out in 1971 just before One Bad Apple, (ergo that song's not included) and just in time for their tour of Japan. The album had some lyrics in Japanese as well, with which Jimmy just couldn't cope. The song was unique because Brother Wayne took the lead, giving it a more sedate, mature feel.

This is before Donny, people; it was all about Merrill back then.

Three Blokes in a Warehouse

I couldn't see what I was shooting; the sun was so bright and the warehouse so dark. Two sculptors and a 3D artist conspiring to dispose a body? Nah, not these three. I just liked the spontaneity and the feeling of .... I can't remember the words.... a slice in/of time? It's the kind of scene one finds in an old-fashioned painting, isn't it? One of those huge murals? I also like a smaller version where I cropped everything else and kept just the three conspiring/consulting faces.

Pooped...

Stuff delivered to the truck. Bit more work on the portfolio. Three days to weave a bit... Must deal with mangled warp on loom.

So tired I can't see straight, and it's contagious; Ben just said the same, and now he's lisping.

Love you all and miss you, but probably not right in the head until we return from Welly this time next week.

Will keep you posted about my trials and trivial tribulations, tho. XX OO ZZZZ...

Lame Photographer

I've been recycling the pics in the previous post over a couple of blogs. Lame. I didn't use to do that, or at least I had some gap in time for doing that. Lame... I've really got to get cracking now because I only have six days before we leave.

Silly Busy

Spring has sprung in Nelson, but I'm in lock down again. I bought a tiny pot of pansy to try to bring a little bit of spring into my work space. While shooting this, I noticed my rosemary bushes were in flower, and beyond, you can see the neighbor's lemons.



I still love what I do, but am feeling just a tad cooped up. One more week to go.

Can Boyish Good Looks Get Your Vote?

Christchurch City Council candidate Nathan Ryan keeps getting his billboards stolen, so he decided to put one on TradeMe (NZ version of EBay) rather than to have them stolen. He's a 35-year-old family man, with two kids, but sounds like he's enjoying the notoriety.

You be the judge; click here.

Oh, I do Love Dogs...

From Haninge, Norway, folks.

Public Art

I found this photo this morning in Santosa (Florida) Daily Photo, by Explorer Dave, and it got me thinking.

We have a lot of public art, and sculptures in particular, and some try to use the scenery as a back drop, but many are introspective and don't really enhance or highlight the scenery. And in a place like Nelson, (we are so terribly photogenic and beautiful most days of the year), it'd be great to have pieces that draw our eyes to the scenery.

It just so happens that Ben posted pics of Seafarer, here and here, today. As much as I admire Grand Pallisar's work, and as much as he is loved and respected in Nelson, I'm looking at things from a new perspective this morning. Know what I mean?

Then I found this in Stockholm. I really like these outdoor exhibitions, because they put the works out of the sanctuary/gallery and back into the real world, and am wondering when we can see an outdoor painting exhibition, or have you seen one already?

Alan Broadbent

Alan Broadbent is a New Zealand jazz pianist, composer and arranger. He doesn't sing, which is a shame because has a heavenly, melty voice. I'd pay admissions to hear him read the phone book. I think he's lived in New York City for a long time, and we don't get him down this way often enough.

Six years ago tonight, Nelson time, we were at his concert at Nelson School of Music.

May there be a moment of solace, if not peace, for victims of violence.

Does Psychology Always Help?

Ben doesn't believe in Psychology, and has never needed a counselor. I do, and I have.

Besides a few brushes with a bit of depression, I've needed to talk to non-family and non-friends to try to figure out what I'm trying to do in life. I worry a lot; I worry about what other people think; I have a bad temper. I am pig-headed (in Japanese, it's called "stone-headed"), but in the last decade or so, I've been a strange mixture of strong convictions and not being able to make up my mind, and when I do, I change my mind so much I can't even remember what my last "conviction" was.

Looking back, I grew up in a house where Dad's mood dictated everything. The joyous occasions were excruciatingly joyous, and we were expected to behave as such; our angry periods were very angry and protracted. In the in-between bits, I became logical in ways only a child can; for every conceivable scenario I could concoct of getting into trouble with Dad, I had preventive excuses. Dad liked that I had an opinion on everything, and some days he drilled me on my facts, but other days he couldn't be bothered with the sound of my voice and wished I'd behave like "normal" girl. My sister withdrew, and my brother became the family clown and laughed everything off.

You might say this is emotional abuse, but considering when, where and how Dad was raised, and comparing him to other fathers and grandfathers, Dad was strict and scary, but not abusive in the context. And it was never physical. Besides, he participated in our lives more than any other dad I knew, and he tried conscientiously to be a good one. He does have this innate rage, though, and his family, a tendency for clinical depression.

My mother was trained as a child psychologist, and when I was little, she would describe what motivated me to behave in the way I just did, and how the basics of my personality was already formed, so it was up to me to strive to be a better person. She grew up a middle child of five, in a wealthy but dysfunctional family, with an authoritative but absentee father, and a loving but slave-like mother who passed away when she was 20. She also believed in parents having a united front in front of the kids, so if we were in trouble with Dad, we couldn't go to Mom.

I went to a Catholic convent school for nine years and one term. There, of course, we were discouraged from thinking for ourselves, and were commended for being good soldiers of Jesus and a submissive daughter, and future wife candidate, to whatever male authority figures were around. I got sick of hearing myself say saying I lied at every Confession, and I stopped going to Confession, and then to church, altogether. I couldn't live with a deity, either, who on the one had preached love and then turned around and drowned or burned whole communities, not to mention the hypocrisies of the Catholic institution, but that's for another time.

And of course all this was taking place in Japan, so being inconspicuous and not disrupting the group dynamics was a virtue, (though this is hardly as oppressed as reported by Westerners, but this, too, for another time.)

All this adds up to a child who is constantly analyzing her behavior, knowing she has insurmountable character flaws, yet convinced it's good to have and voice opinions, that knowledge will save me in the end. She sought attention, but couldn't handle what she got, and envied those who could blend in the background. She's also a perfectionist, but lazy and hedonistic, and, by nature, a gung-ho doer, but lives in a place where this is not recommended unless you're ready to go it alone.

Going back to weather Psychology helps me, well, I don't know. For most of my life, I thought I was the epitome of WYSIWYG personality, but now I'm recognizing my many dualities. Talking to professionals sometimes help, but dwelling on my parents' shortcomings and rehashing and blaming them, when I'm looking to turn 50, is plain counterproductive. I go over conversations in my head, before and after I talk, so talking to someone is not always cleansing, and I do hold grudges.

It comes back to what Mom said all along, that only I can change me, and I need to work this out myself. I didn't expect to loose the ability for judgment at this late stage in my life, but I can't change the series of circumstances that led to this, and no doubt there are other factors I'm not aware of. If that makes me sound like a nervous person, I'm not. I'm married to my soul mate whose outlook is so relaxed he's horizontal most of the time, and having changed my career to something horribly time-consuming and labor-and-attention-intensive has allowed me to concentrate on the moment.

By all accounts I've had a cushy life. With extreme cynicism and skepticism, I also inherited a kind of innate optimism from Dad. And I've got y'all to complain to, make preventive excuses to, and to share my excruciatingly joyous occasions with.

So, dear friend Bill, does that answer your question about "Complaints"?

"American Pie"

Just before last Christmas, I picked up "The Very Best of Don McLean" CD, because I had seen his name on one of your blogs. I can't remember whose blog, and I couldn't remember who this Don was, but I knew I used to know that name in my youth.

So I put the CD on, and the first song is "American Pie". I always liked this song, but I never found out what the story behind this one is. Now, this side of Katrina, I'm just so very curious. Does anybody know? Myron? Bill? JB?

And while I got your attention, what's "Vincent" all about? Could it possibly be about van Gogh?

Hey, That's My Life!

Yesterday, I heard on the radio a review of a book called "Notes from an Exhibition", by Patrick Gale, Fourth Estate. (It was more like the radio was on while I was warping.) Apparently it's a biography about a painter who had bipolar disorder, and her Quaker husband. She took solace in his peace; he enjoyed (??) the chaos and excitement of her life.

There were lots of things their children the husband didn't understand about her, which came to light after she passed away and they were sorting though her stuff. Sounds absolutely interesting. Has anyone read it? I'm so going to go look for it ... soon. It sounds like a map of where Ben and I are going, at this rate.

And speaking of books, while I was posting the previous post, I was listening to a review of classics on the radio. Today's book was Joyce's "Ulysses", which just happens to be the book I did my Bachelor's thesis on, without even reading the whole thing, I now confess.

I wasn't exactly a young student then, but I was hopelessly shallow, and it wasn't until about five years ago that I bought a CD of a bunch of Irish actors reading Ulysses that I realized the extent of my shallowness.

I knew I was missing a lot of references to the original Ulysses and other Western myths and legends even back then. There was a student who was a couple of years older than us, Isabella from Nancy, France, who was painfully well-read and educated, (and nice,) who picked up every little reference, catching even our esteemed professor off guard on one or two occasion. She awed and annoyed me to death. And, boy, I really got nothing of the sexual references back then; none.

I was paying attention to the Irish Independence movement, both surrounding Parnell and the revitalization of the Irish language. In 2003, I did go to the central post office in Dublin and the guard let us go behind the roped area to show us the blurbs and bullet hole, I think. I tried to taking in take in the air of history in that magnificent city, that it wasn't just literature, but people lived though it.

Anyway, Joyce, and Wolfe, are like the vanguards of the stream-of-consciousness writing, right? But don't you think a whole lot of us bloggers do a more interesting job of that nowadays?

Well, back to the warping board, eh.

One Week's Reprive

Well, less than that!

It was last Friday at 2PM that I finished worrying about weaving stuff for the big exhibit. Wednesday night, I may have gotten a provisional "go" for another, smaller exhibit. Friday at 11:30, I rang up a museum shop, as I was recommended to do, to see if I can get an appointment to go show them my stuff and if they were interested in flogging them. The generous man wants me to come in with more stuff before the big show opens, so the shop can have some at the same time as the show. Soooooooo, back to the drawing board, or the warping board in my case.

I'm going to be flat out from now until we leave for Welly, on the 20th. Meaning, either, I won't be posting my mental dribble here for a w-h-i-l-e, OR, this post will turn into one massive steam-of-consciousness stuff, mates.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not feeling bad, I'm flattered and thrilled. It's just this series of events inspired me to post on my superbly occasional Japanese blog, the words, "glutton for punishment".

Schmooze??

The American in me thinks this is an insult, but the Yiddish dictionary says it means "talk, converse, chat, shmooze"... And I doubt Gerald would be the kind of man who'd post a grave insult... What do you think?

Looking at the description of this award makes me feel good, though. Post when I can; visit when I can. "Weave in and out". Yeah, makes me feel less guilty about not visiting much lately.

I Bought a Rothko...

Choosing a calendar is a very serious business for me. Every year I go to all the bookshops in Nelson, and in Wellington if I have a chance, starting around late August. I grunt and mumble and pace and compare. Over about three months.

This year, I did it in one day; well, in less than an hour, this afternoon. I was shocked that the shortlist consisted of William Morris wallpapers, Van Gogh, and Rothko, the last two having been my least favorite artists for most of my life. It's because of Simon Schama's BBC series, Power of Art, that I even looked at Van Gogh. And as for Rothko, I don't really know what to think.

I sat in a chair at Page and Blackmore at approximately 3.15PM, having narrowed down my choices to these three, and slowly took off my old lady glasses and glued my nose to the dusty cling film on the calendars to have a closer look. (It's been dry and windy for over a week here.)

William Morris would have been my natural choice; the curves and shapes can be translated into textiles easily, and I find the Arts and Crafts movement very pleasant and non-threatening, things you want to live with. Van Gogh, I must say I became more interested in the man rather than his art, but for the first time in my life, I wanted to have a look at his paintings. Kind of. I still find his paintings raw and troubling, and I don't like being threatened by art, I want to be pleased.

Mark Rothko. Well, I used to think he was a graphic designer that somehow made it big, no puns intended. I used to think his art made nice postcards and wrapping paper, and maybe even good book designs, but I never took him seriously. Of course, in his case, size matters, and my calendar is your normal big calendar, so I'm not sure how authentic my experiences will be. But the colors are scintillating, tantalizing and complex, and there are lots of oranges and dark reds that I'm want to study.

I had to sit a while longer and take in this strange experience, that I made the decision to spend my year with Rothko, AND was actually looking forward to it.

It's after nearly 9PM, and considering I've been up since 3AM this morning, I think I'm allowed to post a batty picture. There you have it; over and out.

I think I'm ready to turn 50

Today, I was walking by a rather popular fashion store, and I thought: "Why don't they iron those dresses properly?"

And then I realized, I'm probably ready to turn 50 next year.

I'm not a Morning Person

Ben's cell phone is low on battery and it's been making this dove-like noise. I first heard it at 3AM and thought it was a strange bird. But this cooing was to regular, it wasn't natural.

I finally found the source, and it's... bloody hell, 4.35AM, and I don't know where he keeps his pluggy thing. I think I'll go ask him.

Boy, am I going to have a crappy day. I don't usually swear so much this early in the day; heck, I'm never up this early anyway.

***

So it's 7:30, and, OK, officially, what a ditz. Ben just turned his cell phone off; why didn't I think of that... Geepers.

Wayne's Biggest Project

That there tall and kind-looking scientist is Wayne, one of the reasons I stay with Toastmasters. We had an executive meeting today, and then I had a nice long talk with Wayne, and I was allowed to delegate some of the VP jobs, and we decided some of the more useful TM software was possibly too advanced for our club at this point. So suddenly I'm off the hook and I can just slowly work on our FreeToastHost website. What a relief! In the short time since April, when I joined, Wayne must have saved my sanity around three times.

As I was walking back from the cafe to Ben's work, I started giggling; I must be the biggest crisis management project he's had. Gee, I'm high-maintenance!

Looking at this photo, though, which was taken on the first birthday of our club back in June (yes, we had champaign in the middle of the day, and then I went to the gym!!) we have two (??) German, one Swiss, one Zimbabwean, and me in our tiny club. And this is New Zealand, so some of the "Kiwis" would have been born in England.

Wow.

Priorities

There was a "Good Lord, What Have I Done Part 1.5"...

In less than 24 hours after I got over the big hump of preparing for the big exhibit, someone told me about another small exhibit taking place in October right here in town, and I really wanted to participate in that. And I could have. So I contacted the curator right away, but I haven't heard back, so I'm thinking this is a Kiwi way of saying "No way, Mate".

Which is disappointing, but I understand. The exhibit, the way it was interpreted by my friend, is a collection of works by people from elsewhere coming to NZ/Nelson and practicing art under the influence of Nelson-ness. I wouldn't have been a weaver had I not moved to Nelson.

I've got to get out of my Iraq.

Toastmasters is my Iraq

Or, "Good Lord, What Have I Done Part 2"...

I only found out what TM is in April; I was still learning the ropes when I was asked to look into getting a web site, so I agreed. In July, they needed someone to take care of the membership list, name tags and visitor pack, and I thought those would be easy, given the first two are tied in with how the free host web site is set up, so I volunteered. I was told that made me VP Membership; no sweat, it's just a name, I thought.

WRONG!!! There's a mentor, except when I ask her any question, I end up having more tasks, so it's probably best I don't 'ask. And the two powers-that-be who know how TM works are also involved, with each other.

There's nothing inappropriate going on here; in fact, they're handling the separation of TM and their relationship admirably maturely, and I think they're great as a couple.

It's just I'm in over my head, and I now spend much too much time doing the VP Mem stuff, which is taking time away from the web, which leaves no time for trying to be more involved with the meetings, which, all in all, is robbing my sleep and making me grumpy like you wouldn't believe. And I have nowhere to turn to, except you good people in the blogging universe.

It got to a point where cold turkey is the only way I can see out.

Lordy.

Good Lord, What Have I Done...

So, Ben's started using his Flickr and he's finding out a lot about what you can do there, and keeps telling me about them, and I've been there looking around, oh, for maybe half an hour now, and look, there are all these books and products folks can make using my photos.... I WANT, I WANT, I WANT!!! As if I didn't have enough ways of wasting my not-yet-earned NZ dollars. Te Papa, look what you've done to me!

Te Papa and Ben's Flickr

Te Papa, our national museum in Wellington, is starting a ten-year multimedia thingie called Our Space using Flickr, which may be of great interest to all you Kiwi photographers out there!

So Beloved finally got himself a Flickr account and will be posting some of his best pics in large formats. When this gets going, we may even see other, familiar Kiwi photobloggers' work, too.