I got a call awhile back, from a thrift store. It seems the $1200. painting that I donated to the church for their fundraiser had not sold. Instead of returning it to me, they had donated it to a thrift store. Some worker there had marked it for $25. The owner called me, having looked me up on my website. She wanted to know the “real” price of the painting.
At first, I was devastated in the heart. How could anyone dis-respect my work so much? Then, I realized that it was only because I had not provided protection, myself. Even more important (at least I think so in this moment) than for work which I sell, it is critical to attach a contract to work which I may donate as well, providing for return upon the contingency that it does not find a happy home. Needless to say, I will think more than twice before I consider donating anything to that church again.
I know that some of my work may take a long while to sell. I have an extensive collection of pieces yet waiting to be discovered and claimed by the one for whom it was painted. And, maybe, in the end, that person is me.
I paint directed by the muse. It is a spiritual process that is not attached to the foibles of the marketplace. That’s why I do graphic design and illustration for a living: to allow myself complete freedom from the limitations of cultures accepted style of the moment.
Certainly it could be up to me to educate people like those in charge of the donations collection at the church about respecting an artists work, or I could just build in the respect with a contract. Either way, I don’t take it personally.
How can you fill up with any more joy than immersed in the birth of twins? I don’t think there can be hardly any experiences much more joyous than that. Faith and Grace were born on Wednesday this week. I was honored to be there, of support, and able to witness their first moments on this earth outside the womb. At this point there are not a lot of words that approach the intensity and the presence of the eternity of those moments. I only wish to declare my awe in humble gratitude for the immense miracle of life.
The geraniums have run amok this spring. Everywhere I go in this town of ours, the geraniums are lavish in their bushing and blooming. One might think we were properly ensconced on the coast of the Mediterranean. I have visions of a stone walled alleyway, with a cat on the porch, and old world charm exuding from every nook and cranny. As I fill my senses with the exuberant odor of them – even in imagination only – I am transported instantly to my Grandmothers yard, and a simpler more sensory time of my life.
And then there are the roses. Did someone tell them that whoever bloomed the most abundantly would win some highly sought rose-pleasing prize? Everyday I head out on my walk with my camera in tow (because if I do not bring it, I am bound to be disappointed that I didn’t). Each time, there is some new colony of rose bushes having their own battle-of-the-blooms. It does not seem to discourage them when it rains, they are simply prolific this year. And, oh, the perfumes! My nose has reached nirvana this spring on many occasions. Truly, this is May Day joy!
Sometimes I’m my own slapstick comedy. It may start out a normal day. I’ll give thanks before rising for this wonderful gift of life, and this brand new day. Then I jump out of bed ready to get moving, but somewhere right in here, there is a subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) turn in the path.
I used to love to watch the Three Stooges. Now, don’t get me wrong, I never enjoyed the violence part, but the silly antics, and the “Wooo, wooo, wooo, woooo’s”, and the funny situations they got themselves into – those cracked me up. So did Spanky and My Gang, Laurel and Hardy, Red Skelton and Carol Burnett and skits on Saturday Night Live. Although, I stopped watching television years ago, I’ve always enjoyed a good laugh, so I am grateful for a gift from spirit which continues to deliver the humor.
Somehow, when my life gets serious I am gifted with my own real-life ongoing slapstick comedy: me. I crack me up. Life cracks me up. At any given time, all I have to do is step one step back and observe, and it’s very entertaining. It’s like a built-in relief valve.
Carrying too many things, juggling to get the key into the door, and aware of an urgency to get into the facilities is the perfect recipe for some wild antics. Sitting on the little student desk while trying to be impressive with my coolness, and instead landing hind end stuck in the trash can makes me laugh. It is a gift and I am grateful for it.
OK, so this new client wants some new thing, this technology, or that newest buzzword. One more time, I jump on the “can do” train and spend countless evenings studying something new so I can whip it out as if it was there in my pocket all along.
I have to admit, from the outside, I would admire my “Hutzpah,” however, from the inside I am reminded once more of my humanity, and the inability of the body to go for too many days in a row driven by some inner demon with a craving for self-dis-approval. It probably sounds painful. That’s because it probably is. Actually, in fact, it is.
If I counted all the things that I know that I can do, one would use up all the fingers and toes of a small city in no time. The problem with that is that the time allotted for a lifetime is finite, and if one spends their spot of time available working on all of the things possible, then no shiny ONE thing is developed.
It seems I must remind myself that “can do” does not make “must do.”
On my wall in my studio, I have a quote, supposedly from the Buddha,
“No one purifies another. Never neglect your work for another’s however great his need. Your work is to discover your work, and then with all your heart to give yourself to it.”
What is your work? That is a question that I ask myself frequently. My heart can only whisper love notes from the truth and grace can only bless my bent head. And so I seek.
Yet, all the while, my mind lingers in the hallways, seeking answers in the darkened maze.
Discover my work, and give myself to it. . .
