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Saturday, June 21, 2014

To the Artists: Don't Put the Pistol in the Paintbox

In  late July 1890, Vincent Van Gogh walked into the wheat fields with his easel, palette, paints and a pistol.  There have been many disputes about what happened that day, but ultimately Vincent Van Gogh died of a gunshot wound to the abdomen at the ripe old age of 37.  Why?  There is evidence to suggest he suffered from mental illness.  He may have been manic-depressive.  In my opinion though, Vincent gave up.



  In his lifetime Van Gogh produced over 2,100 works of art and he sold only one.  Many he gave away in exchange for rent, food, etc. and many more sat stacked away in his workrooms or attics or in the home of his brother.  As talented as he was, and as famous as he is now, Van Gogh had very little recognition as an artist in his own time.  Day after day he painted and sketched and waited for the world to "get it," yet it didn't.


  Are you a Vincent?  Are you waiting for the world to see and understand what you do?  Perhaps your paintings aren't selling, your book still hasn't been picked up by a publisher or the recording industry hasn't yet recognized your vocal talents.  Don't give up.  Do what you do, if only for yourself, and follow a few simple rules.


  1. Don't forget about "Art for Art's sake."  When it comes down to it, we don't start out as artists with the intention to make lots of money.  Our art is what we do for expression, therapy and love.  Money is not really part of the equation when it comes to pure Art.  They're called "starving artists" for a reason.


  2. Don't let Life tell you that what you do is not important.  It is important.  Maybe not to society as a whole, but in some way it is important.  Maybe just to keep your sanity in check, but that's pretty darn important.


  3. You may not see the impact in your lifetime, but it will come.  Unless you believe the writers of "Doctor Who," Vincent Van Gogh never saw the effect his work has had on the world. (Best DW episode ever, by the way.)  He went into that wheat field and to his grave an utter failure.  Today, his works are priceless.  So does that mean you'll be famous after you're dead?  Probably not, but someone somewhere along the line is going to see what you've done and be impacted by it.  It may be your granddaughter who, years from now, finds the stack of binders full of your poetry and thinks, 'Wow, Grandma was a writer!'  Maybe it will inspire her to write.  Or your drawings will inspire another generation to sketch.  Who knows?


  4. Don't believe that you can't have it or do it all.  Maybe you're a new spouse, new parent, recent graduate.  Don't think that these changes make you less of an artist.  Don't let anyone tell you that your passion is frivolous and should be abandoned.  Of course, you can't forget your responsibilities.  However, don't let responsibility bury your identity.  You are not just so-and-so's parent, or spouse or employee.  You are you. The Artist.  Don't feel as if you're wasting time when you engage in your passion.  Feed it and let it feed you.  You and your spouse and children and boss will all be the happier for it!


  5. Don't give up.  Never give up.  Graciously accept constructive criticsm, but let negativity roll off your shoulders.  Don't worry about what people say about you and what you do.  It isn't for them.  Maybe they'll call you crazy, or roll their eyes or make a face.  Keep doing it.  Forget about money and recognition and understanding and just make Art. Paint, write, sing, dance, compose, sculpt, act, etc.  Just don't give it up.  Be inspired.  Let your joy, pain, dreams and desires push you to new heights.  Be unafraid to take it a step further, to do more than you think you are able.


  I've seen a little saying posted here on facebook a number of times: "The Earth without Art is just 'Eh.'"  How true.  As artists, it's hard to imagine a world without Art.  But just as important, the Art world needs you.  Don't put your paints away, don't stick your poetry notebook under the bed, don't throw away that piece of music that "just isn't right yet."  Remember Vincent, depressed and frustrated and misunderstood, walking into the wheat field for the last time.  Think of how much more he could have done, and continue on for your sake and for his.



Be beautiful, my friends.  Be quirky and wild and weird.  Be passionate and fierce.
Be artists.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Stuff I Found in the Dryer

I've been going through my blog drafts and have decided to share some previously unpublished material.  It's in no particular order and probably makes no sense, but here it is anyway.


Fury Neighbors:


I live in the country.  Not just rural, mind you.  Country.  We're talking cotton fields, hay bales, and roads that don't have proper names.  As a country-dweller, I've grown accustomed to seeing lots of critters running about the countryside.  Most folks out here just let their pets roam free.  And while it may not be the best thing to do, the animals appreciate the freedom and regularly pay visits to neighboring yards and porches.



Over the years, I've gotten to "know" a lot of the neighborhood pets.  Or at least, I've noted certain characteristics an quirks that they have and have given them fitting nicknames.  The first of these is The Happy Dog.  The Happy Dog is a big ol' German Shepherd-looking dog that lives down the road.  He usually stays in his yard and the surrounding fields, but he runs around that area with a carefree spirit that just makes me smile.  He loves to chase birds, and not birds on the ground.  Birds way up in the air.  He bounds through the field looking up at the birds flying above him as if he is just prepping to take off and fly.  His exuberance always lifts my spirits, and sometimes I just want to run around that field with him, looking up into the sky, carefree and happy.



Across the street from The Happy Dog lives The Ambush Dog.  His nickname is pretty self-explanatory.  Whenever he sees a car approaching, he runs and hides in the deep ditch beside his house.  When the car drives past he leaps from the ditch, barking and yapping, and chases the car down the road.  He's nearly met my tires a couple of times, but brushes with death never seem to deter him from his game of Sneak Attack.


Then a Cloud of Doubt:


I often wish that I didn't think quite so much. I tend to over-think. I ask myself, "Why is this so important? Who will benefit from it?" The answer? Maybe only I will ever benefit from this little "habit" of mine. Does that make it any less valuable? So I've spent a year writing something that a handful of people will read in an online forum, so what? It's important to me. It's like chocolate cookies. They have no nutritional value, but they make me happy. This makes me happy. The process makes me happy. Scribbling till the heel of my right hand is blue makes me happy. Even if no one but a couple of basement bound sci-fi geeks ever sees it, it makes me happy. And unlike the chocolate cookies, it won't make me fat.


Freaky Friends:


In my life, I have had a steady succession of crazy friends. I don't mean crazy in the good, make-me-laugh, so-much-fun way. I mean crazy as in the scary, should-be-locked-up way. I seem to attract these kinds of people. I am a weirdo magnet, a bizarro beacon, a loony lighthouse. Maybe it's because I'm too nice, but crazy folks seem drawn to me like moths to a porch light.


I honestly try to help them too. I take it upon myself to try to "fix" them. I have truly been able to help some. However, there have been a few that have been beyond help other than a touch from God Himself.
 


One of those is a crazy chick I'll call Sunny. Sunny has a great personality; smart, funny, warm. However, Sunny craves drama. There is always some major crisis going on in Sunny's life. If Sunny doesn't have real drama, Sunny makes up drama. During the course of our friendship, Sunny was constantly stalked, harassed, raped, attacked, etc. There was always someone after her. For the longest time, I believed her stories and thought she was just really unlucky. Finally though, I was forced to see the truth, and I was devastated. How could someone who was supposed to be my friend lie to me like that?



Since then, I've come to realize that Sunny honestly believes that all this stuff happens to her. In an attempt to protect her, I confronted her. She was on the verge of getting into serious trouble with the police for filing false reports, and I tried to warn her. She denied any wrong-doing and that was the end of our friendship.
 


I thought I was done with her, but she popped back up a few years later and tried to start some drama with me. I didn't take the bait, so she tried to get my husband fired from his job at the university. I confronted her again, and again she denied it even though I know for a fact that she was the culprit. She was unsuccessful anyway, so it doesn't really matter.


I should really clean out my lint trap more often.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Makin' Like Sherlock

Short version. Not dead.


I haven't posted in ages, but that doesn't mean I haven't been working.  For the past year or so, I have been busily scribbling off this and that, poetry, short stories (fan fiction), etc.  I've written more in the last 10 months than I have in the last 5 years combined, and I think I have at last found my voice.


With that discovery came an even more mind-blowing one.  I discovered that I can do this.  I can write.  I can not only write, I can share it with other people and chances are they will like it.  Wh-what?  That's crazy, right?


I have struggled for years to find my niche, my thing, my career.  I've been left feeling rather useless because I didn't feel I had any "marketable skills."  I'm not a salesperson, or a nurse, or a real estate agent.  I'm an Artist.  I'm a musician, actress, singer, crafter, writer.  I create and express.  That is my calling, my career.  Will it be very lucrative?  Probably not.  However, I've never been really concerned with making money.  Oh sure, money's great.  I guess.  I've never really had any, so I can take it or leave it. 


I'm ready to leave my doubts behind and fearlessly jump into this new pursuit.  It's a passion, a compulsion.  I'm giving in to it. 


I've sent off a few manuscripts, published some poetry and now I'm looking into freelancing.  It's totally new to me, but I'm excited to explore the possibilities.   I'll try to make somewhat regular updates on my progress, so stay tuned.

Friday, April 15, 2011

I Kinda Wish I Were in a Chicken Suit

Today is a momentous occasion; I am hosting my very first solo yard sale.  I'm a little nervous since I've never had a yard sale on my own, but if I remember everything I've been taught about the art of the yard sale, I should do just fine.  After all, I learned from the best. 

My grandmother was the Yard Sale Queen, the Garage Sale Guru, the Ultimate Authority on tag sales, rummage sales, whatever you choose to call them.  She had the biggest and best yard sales, and practically made her living selling things on her front lawn.  The woman was a born salesman...er woman.  She knew how to advertise, promote, display, price, and haggle.  Her advertisements and promotions usually involved me dressing in some kind of costume, yelling at passing cars.  She once dressed me in a bunny costume and instructed me to yell, "Hop on down to a yard sale!" at everyone going by.  Another time I was dressed as a clown and my cry was something along the lines of, "Stop clowning around and come to a yard sale!"  As humiliating as that was, I was always paid for my trouble.  Maybe I should have used my wages to pay for some therapy.

My grandmother could sell anything.  She just had a knack for making people believe that they really couldn't live without a set of mismatched spoons, or a non-working toaster, or a pair of pants that were way too small.  She once sold a sweater of mine that had an A (for Amy) embroidered on it by telling a lady the A stood for Alabama.  Never mind that the sweater was pink. 

The best part of her sales strategy had to be her stories.  She came up with wild tales to accompany her assortment of items to make them irresistible to customers.  She would say things like, "This little china cup was my great-great-grandmother's.  It was her only possession when she came to America from the Old Country."  Of course, the reality was something more like she paid 50 cents for the cup at a Goodwill store and brought it home and stuck a $5 price tag on it.  People consistently fell for it and bought her stuff, and she would laugh all the way to her little cash bag!

Of course, she met her share of tough customers.  She usually proved tougher, though.  If someone thought an item was marked too high and tried to get her to come down on the price, she would look them in the eye and say, "It don't eat a thing at my house."  In other words, I'm not that attached to it, and I don't care what you think, that's my price. 

She also had plenty of superstitions and rituals for her yard sales.  The biggest and most important one was that you did not count your money until the yard sale was over.  If you did, you would not make another dime.  My mother said she did it once, and didn't have another customer the entire day.  It became a firm rule, no matter how tempting it was to count that stack of cash, it must NOT be done until the end of the sale day.

My grandmother passed away several years ago, and I miss her terribly, especially today.  I wish she were here to great customers with her usual, "Come on up, I've got a little bit of everything."  She would probably have me dressed up as a monkey or a chicken, but I suppose that would be okay.  We could sit on the steps and play cards and drink Diet Pepsi, and if we didn't have a single customer, it would still be a great day.

*RIP Sara Kathleen (Yancy) Theys*

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Bennett Family Edu-cation

What does a family of nerds do during Spring Break?  They go on an edu-cation.  That's right.  This week Don and I took the kiddos on a nerdly adventure through Atlanta.  We started at The Varsity, feeding trough for all the Georgia Tech geeks.  After feasting on chili dogs and onion rings, we went to Fernbank Museum of Natural History where we got our geek on in an exhibit of mythical creatures.  Later that evening we checked out the Book Nook, a nerd paradise of used books, comic books, and sci-fi collectibles. 

Wednesday we got our hair cut, let the nerdlings go crazy in Toys R' Us, and did some shopping.  We went to R. Thomas for dinner where I discovered the sinus cleansing powers of wasabi.  Ahhhhh...!

Thursday was gorgeous, so we went to the zoo.  I tried to give the boys back to them, but they didn't seem that interested.  Hmmmm...
I geeked out over the pandas.  The new baby panda, Po (his name is Po!) was out on display and I oohed and ahhed and snapped lots of pictures.  I even bought another stuffed panda to add to my collection.  Timothy and I checked out the reptile house.  Super cool.  Paul was more interested in riding the train, which happened to be in repairs.  We all rode the carousel instead.

After the zoo, we indulged our inner food nerds at Harry's in Marietta.  I bought cheese and scones and a huge bottle of olive oil.  I couldn't help buying a big tub of delicious (if not over-priced) mozzarella pasta salad too.  Yum! 

We were all thoroughly tired when we finally got home, but we had a great time.  We ate lots of great food, learned a bit, bought some cool stuff, and relished every nerdy second of our time together.  Like the old saying goes, the family who nerds together...well, you get the idea.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Big Bad F-Word

No, not that one.  Failure.  My greatest fear.  I've never had many phobias.  Heights don't bother me.  Crowds don't ruffle me.  I don't mind tiny spaces, or bridges, or snakes.  And unlike my husband, I'm pretty comfortable around clowns.  (Don't judge, it's a common fear.)  But failure?  Yikes.  I'm terrified of it.

I suppose it comes from being a bit of a perfectionist.  I like things done right, and done right the first time.  To fail means that I've done something wrong, and I hate to do something wrong.  It gnaws at me.  It makes me uncomfortable.  I hate that feeling.  So whenever I find myself standing on the threshold of some potentially life-changing decision, there's always that nagging doubt in the back of my mind. 

"What if you mess this up completely?"

Many times I've found myself backing away from the edge of opportunity for fear of mistakes I might make.  A couple of times, I've turned around and completely walked away.  Why?  I've been asking myself that for years.  I know in my heart that every failure is a learning opportunity.  Messing up is not the end of the world.  You get up, dust yourself off, and try again.  Some of my best successes have come from just letting go and jumping in over my head.  But the fear still lingers.

I told myself at the beginning of last month that this would be the Year of No Fear.  I would do all the things that I've always wanted to do without worrying about making mistakes.  I'm not talking about climbing Mt. Everest or anything, but just doing the unexplored things that I know I have a knack for.  I anticipate rejection letters, and I've told myself it's okay.  Everybody gets them, but the successful people don't let them get them down or make them quit. 

I have a choice.  I can live my life in security and look back with regret, or I can embrace the unknown, take some risks, and possibly find even greater happiness.  Am I going to let my life be ruled by fear?  Or am I going to live? 

I choose to LIVE.

*A special thanks to Hilary for the awesome quote this morning.  Rock on, creative chick!*

Thursday, December 02, 2010

Dear Stupid People

To the Mother-of-the-Year in Walmart:
If you are bundled up in a heavy coat, your baby probably should be wearing more than a short-sleeved onesie.

To the Joe-Bob who thinks it's perfectly acceptable to display parts of the male anatomy on his truck's trailer hitch:
Insecure, are we?

To the lady reading a stack of legal documents while driving:
Pull over please.  If you die in a horrific car crash before those divorce papers are signed, that lousy, cheating scumbag and his floozy will get ALL of your stuff.

To the Lead-Foot behind me on the road:
Tail-gating me will not make me go faster.  In fact, I'm likely to slow down. 

To Sarah Palin:
Stop. Just stop. Please.

Most Sincerely,
Amy