Subjective

Several years ago I began a painting (shown below) in a Sarah Shrift's oil painting class at the Birmingham Bloomfield Art Center. After finishing the painting at home, I entered it in the student show. It was rejected. Some month's later I entered the same (unaltered) painting in a professional show and it won an award.

"Pick"
20" x 20" oil on canvas

It is all subjective, Dear Ones. When we do anything creative, some people will hate it, some will love it. So, what do we do with those opinions?


If someone else loves it, does that make it good? If someone else hates it should we cover it with gesso, sand it down, or put it out to the curb for the trash collectors? I think we have to use our own judgement. 


The agent rejected my book. It was a nice rejection—for a REJECTION. She enjoyed my voice and the story. She wished me well in placing it with someone else and reminded me that her opinion was subjective.

Years ago, back in the stone age, when I wrote something that got rejected, I'd address a new envelope, and immediately send it out to someone else.

Sometimes we know, or at least believe, that what we’ve done is good. Leave it as is. Submit it somewhere else. 

But sometimes there is doubt. Look at it again. It’s easier with a painting. It’s visibly right there in front of your face. With a book—58,000 words—it’s harder to know. But the truth is, I do know. The book needs more work, more thought, more time. 

Okay, so back to the laptop, which is much easier than etching in stone.

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Choice

Many years ago (36 to be exact), I worked for a small printing company. The owners hired me as a bookkeeper. They quickly realized that they better do the bookkeeping themselves, so they taught me how to keyline. If you're thinking that I'm going to explain arcane graphic design methods, relax, I won't do that to you. 

The printing business was in their home. The basement had an art department with drafting tables for keylining and design. There was a big camera in the back room, and a dark room with chemical baths for developing film. The garage had been converted into a room for the printing press.

I was newly divorced at the time and when I told my mother and grandmother that I was working for two men out of their home, they were both alarmed, frightened for my safety. 

"Don't worry," I said. "They're gay."

That's when my grandmother came up with a new worry. "Aren't you afraid you'll become homogenized too."

Yes, she did say homogenized. I assured her that homosexuality wasn't catchy.

These guys were my bosses and also my friends. They were in their fifties and sixties and had been together for thirty years. I felt honored that they were open with me about their relationship. They thought people didn't know they were gay, but everyone did. They never mentioned wanting to be married, but then again in 1976, it wasn't an option. 

I have friends and family—heterosexual couples—who have lived together for decades and never pushed wedding cake into each others mouths. They've chosen not to be married. 

My gay friends pay taxes and vote and some even defend our country, but they get no choice about marriage unless they travel to another state. 

After the President came out about his feelings about gay marriage, a black man from South Carolina called into NPR to say he would never vote for President Obama because of his position on homosexuals. "Two men or two women marrying was going against the bible," the man said.

I am no bible scholar. However, I do know that there are bible passages that condone slavery, and if someone steals from you, it's okay to chop off their hands—an eye for an eye. If folks are selective about the bible passages they want to live by, why can't it be the part about "doing unto others as you would have them do unto you"?

I am proud to be an American. I will be even prouder when we have equal rights under the law for all of our people.

Priority Mail

Last Monday I went to the post office. 

Okay, so does that opening line grab you? 

That opening line makes me feel queazy in my throat. It causes little sweat balls to form on my forehead. It makes my stomach turn flips and flops. It gives me little tremors in my fingers.

Last Monday, March 12, 2012, I took a pile of papers—query letter, first two chapters, outline, synopsis and a stamped return envelope—to the post office. 

I hunted around the lobby and finally found the Priority Mail envelopes. My hands shook. I put all my papers inside the Priority Mail envelope and sealed it. I used the Sharpie Marker I brought with me to carefully address the mailer. Shaking, afraid I’d misspell the literary agent’s name. What if I miswrote the address, I could be waiting on pins and needles for years while my memoir was sitting in the back of a grocery store in Hoboken, New Jersey. Checked it again. Okay. Her name was spelled correctly. The address was good. New York, New York is a wonderful town.

Six people were ahead of me in line. I stood there. My fingers vibrated uncontrollably, I could have played a mandolin. A dark-haired cute—no, really hot—young guy was in line behind me. Brown eyes, sweet, maybe thirty, maybe fifteen, a distraction for my frayed nerves.

“Could I please borrow your Sharpie?” he said, and then continued with some other words.

I handed him my pen and smiled, forgetting my shakes for a moment. While he wrote on his package, I looked at mine again. I flipped my Priority Mail envelope over. On the back side was a space for the Sender and a space for the Addressee. Why would it be on the back? OH SHIT!

The line in front of me was down to three people. The line behind me was up to ten. I asked Hotty to save my spot. I hurried to grab another Priority Mail envelope. Ripped open PM envelope #1. Took out my pages. Wrote the address, hurried—but careful. Get it right. Get it right. 


My numbers up, I told Hotty to go ahead of me. Did I spell the literary agent’s name right. Check twice. Got everything into the envelope. Look at both sides again. Seal it.

My turn.

Hands shaking, I handed the clerk the envelope. Stammered about Delivery Confirmation. Shaking. Did she wonder about me—what was this woman putting in the United States Mail? Did Ted Kaczynski cross her mind? No, I guess not. She gave me my receipt and I left the post office.

The package arrived at the literary agents at 10:19, March 14th. Now I’ll wait around, revise the book some more. Get ready for the day she sends an email, or a note in my self-address return envelope. Ugh. Will she want to see the whole book, all 218 pages? Will she not be interested? We’ll see. Writing was the fun part. This isn’t.

I thought about not posting this until I had an answer in six to eight weeks. But what are friends for anyway? 

So friends, how about some crossed fingers, prayers, a little voodoo, whatever...

Open Voting

At the end of my book club meeting, as all the women were putting on their coats, voting came up. Tuesday is the Michigan primary. We have open voting here, which means we can go to the polls and vote for either party. This is posing a question for us non Tea Party, non Libertarian, non Conservative voters. Should we skew the vote?


The question floated in the air. A couple of my friends had done early voting. Gingrich: one. Paul: one. What about Santorum? “No way in hell,” was one comment in a rustle of winter coats. Romney: zero. Did I mention that my bookclub consists of all liberal Democrats.

Newscasters are saying that Michigan could make or break Romney. It’s his home state. So what does he like about this state? “The trees are the right height.” He has to talk about the trees, because he doesn’t much like the people. Marie Antoinette said, “Let them eat cake.” Romney says, “Let them go bankrupt.” That comment is probably the least flip-floppy of anything he’s said during the campaign. His business career bankrupting companies made him rich. Bankruptcy’s fun, in a gimme gimme way.

Santorum hates women, hates sex, hates education. Colleges want to turn students away from God. This seems to be a sign of a very fragile belief in God. If knowledge can make you change your religion, something’s wrong with your religion. And birth control? Ladies please squeeze your legs together.

Gingrich’s big plan is to colonize the moon. I imagine that the first folks he’ll send into space will be the Black kids he wants working as janitors in their schools.

And the final choice is Ron Paul. Ron, like his fellow Republicans, he hates government. He hates government so much that he wants to be the government. Does this strike you as a little sado-masochistic? He would eliminate public education, and all the military. You know he’s hoping for a time when we can get back to dirt roads. He would de-regulate everything (also like his cohorts). We should trust businesses not to pollute our water, not to give us poisonous food, not to sell us dangerous products. 

Whew, choices, choices, so many choices. I really feel sad for my Republican friends.

President Obama is also on our ballot.

In case you’re wondering, I’m voting YES for local schools. And I’m voting for the only candidate who wants all of our children to be educated, the one who risked his presidency to take out Bin Laden, the one who wants health care for everyone, and yes, the one who can sing. I’m voting for the Black guy.

Late news: part of this blog post got into the comments section of Charles Blow's Op Ed piece in the today's (Saturday, Feb 25) New York Times. Here's a link:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/25/opinion/blow-mitt-romney-michigan-and-a-couple-of-cadillacs.html?comments#permid=143

You'll have to scroll down and click on "Read More Comments" to find it.

Cursive

When I was a little girl, before writing was invented, or at least before anyone taught me handwriting, I’d sit with lined paper making marks, writing secrets that no one could read. I was writing in my own personal cursive. It looked like the writing I saw big people doing; mysterious and exciting.

Last spring I went back into my childhood and did a painting with imaginary script written on a curve with a rubber-tipped tool. I carved imaginary words into the surface of the wet oil paint. That painting and three others were in a group show at Scharolette Chappell’s Gateway Gallery in Oak Park.

"Cursive" 30"x30" oil on canvas

During the show, people asked me if the writing on the painting was Arabic. Since Arabic was one of the earliest alphabets, it tickled me that my pretend cursive, my earliest handwriting, looked Arabic. People asked me what it said. That made my heart go bumpity-bump. When I was a little kid no one ever asked me what my writing said. 

Every year the Scarab Club in Detroit has a special show for women. Marilyn Zimmerman is curating "2012 Women Image Color". Treena Flannery Ericson (Gallery Director of the Scarab Club) came over last night and selected ten paintings (including “Cursive”) that she wants to add to the show. Treena’s a delightful, bubbling, down to earth woman. I think she knows every artist in town - and remembers everyone’s name and their work. Can you imagine how exciting it was to get a call saying she wanted my paintings? Wow. I‘m feeling very humbled and honored.

Here are the participating artists in the exhibit:

Diana Alva

Lynn Arbor

Rhiannon Chester

Jenny Chope

Joan Farago

Anne Fracassa

Linda Mendelson

Gilda Snowden

Lois Teicher

S. Kay Young

Anyway, if you’d like to come see the show, here’s the skinny:

The Scarab Club, 217 Farnsworth St, Detroit, MI 48202

Artist reception: Friday, February 17,  6-9 pm

Crone Celebration (Closing reception): Friday, March 23, 6-9 pm

Linda Mendelson and Lois Teicher will be honorees.

***

Update: I’m still pretending to be a writer. The memoir is coming along, growing ... some day, some day, some day, it’ll be a real book. I'm still wishing and Geppetto's still carving. 

***

One other thing — everything on this blog is copyrighted. 
Copyright © 2012 Lynn Arbor

So don't be a copycat. Do your own stuff. 

Thank you. 

The Gift of the Magi - with twists

Do you know the O. Henry story, The Gift of the Magi? It’s a love story. Jim’s most treasured possession was a gold watch that had been his father’s and grandfather’s. Delia’s most treasured possession was her beautiful hair reaching down below her knees. They were very poor. To buy a Christmas gift for his love, Jim sold his watch to buy combs for her hair. Delia sold her hair to buy Jim a platinum chain for his watch.

***

When John asked what I wanted for Christmas this year, I told him I wanted blinds for the picture windows at the back of the living room and dining room. This was asking a lot. Architects like bare windows, that whole uncluttered look. He whined. He argued. 

“Why, all of a sudden after fifteen years, do you want blinds?” “Arrghh!” “Boo.” “Hiss.” Yes, he really said all those things.

I mentioned living in a fishbowl. I mentioned the neighbors on the block behind us seeing everything we did, not that we did anything interesting (the fishbowl inhibits interesting). I mentioned Boogie Men hiding in our yard. I mentioned not liking those two big black squares in the dark of night. I mentioned all the heat escaping out those cold glass panes. I mentioned that this was something I had mentioned for fifteen years.

But I knew I was losing. As backup present, I told him a new sweater would be nice.

Then, last Thursday night, I came home from my book club. Lo on yonder windows - BLINDS! When it was the last thing he wanted, he gave me blinds. He must really love me.

I've been swooning over how wonderful the blinds are all weekend, and he mumbles, "grrrr" and "arrgh".

***

When he was laid off from the architectural firm five-years ago, the rebel in him started gooing and greasing back his soft dark hair. He’s been going around slicked up like a hit man on The Sopranos ever since. I don’t like it. I miss his old hair. I’ve told him so - many times. He doesn’t listen.

Last Friday morning, while he was in the shower, I went into the cupboard and took his hair goop. I hid it under the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. He’s gone without his Aveda Phomollient for four days now. And looking pretty cute, I must say. 

This morning, I finished dressing and was standing near the end of the bed when he came out of the shower. He pushed me back on the bed, pinned my arms and squished me. I couldn’t breath. 

I yelled, “Help, help, I can’t breath.”

“Where did you hide my F-ing phomollient,” he demanded.

I laughed, and gasped, “I can’t breath.”

“I’m not letting you up, till you tell me,” he said.

“I forget, I’m old. I forget where I put F-ing stuff.”

More squishing happened. The man takes my breathe away.

"Okay, Okay," I said. "it's in the laundry basket that you took down the basement."

I guess he didn’t feel like going down the basement, because he left the house with his hair un-slicked.

So, now I’m going to get out the wrapping paper. I’ll giving him something I really don't want him to have. I'm giving him his f-ing phomollient for Christmas, and some other stuff too. 

No Writing When Writing

I haven’t written a blog post since Labor Day. 

Throngs of readers are standing on my porch begging me to write something. They crush into each other like hungry people in a bread line, or teenage girls waiting for tickets to a Justin Bieber concert. The crowd is growing, and so thick and deep that some are standing in the street. I’m afraid someone will get run over. They're chanting; write a blog, write a blog.

Really? Of course not. Two people asked if I was still writing the blog, and incase you were wondering too, here’s the story:

On August 9th, I started writing a memoir about the last two years of my mother and grandmother’s lives. All of my obsessive behavior patterns jumped into fifth gear. Forget dusting. Forget cooking. Forget entering piles of receipts into Quicken. Forget painting. Write the book. Read the writing. Write some more. 

Ignore John when he walks in the door and kisses my cheek. Guilty? Not very. I did kiss him before he left. Curiously, he finds me ever so much more interesting when I ignore him.

On October 10th, two months later, the book was finished. 150 pages. 

I gave it to family members, and two close friends who didn’t know the story already. As they read, I read it again. And again. Changes. Edit. Correct spelling. Add some here. Remember more stories to add. 

Read it again and again. Write. Edit. 

Ann doesn’t like my mother, hates the beginning. Joy teaches me grammar that I should already know, but don't. She puts smiley faces on the parts she likes. My daughter, Sue should have been a copy editor...she is GOOD. Bonnie tells me that I didn’t mention the shark she drew on the tablecloth at Thanksgiving. John reads it and reminds me of more things I’d forgotten, and places where I’ve exaggerated.

I read it again. Oh, my god, it is really bad. Really boring. Why did I do this?

I read it again. It is awesome. Diane Rehm will have me on her radio show on NPR. Ten weeks on the New York Times Best Seller list. Maybe they'll make a movie.

I write more. 180 pages. Edit. Don’t like it. Love it. Worry it. Get sick of it. Hate it.

When I can’t sleep the book fills my head at night, crowding out possible dreams about gorilla suits and forgetting my locker number in high school. I wake up and word arrangements clutter my cereal bowl and paragraphs pour from the coffee pot into my cup. 

Maybe by January it’ll be a real book that I can mail to an agent. Maybe.

In the mean time, it's getting cold out. If you must stand on my porch, I'll bring you a cup of coffee. Do you take cream and sweetener?