Ode to October II: "Legends are born ..." edition

Giants win! (Centerfielder Angel Pagan celebrates.)
My San Francisco Giants won the NL pennant! The World Series begins tonight, just a few blocks from my office.

I grew up with Giants fever. Until 10 years ago, being a Giants fan meant that you stuck it out, braved the wintery Julys at the 'Stick, known as the coldest field in MLB. Shirtless men in the bleachers at night games were gladiators (and usually numb-drunk.) When nine innings were not punishing enough and the games went into extra innings, die-hards who stayed were rewarded with a Croix de Candlestick pin. We survived even when they lost. And in those days, they lost often.

Watching my Giants these last few weeks has brought back a lot of fond memories. I did not have a traditional childhood in many ways, but being a local-sports fan was one way it did feel "normal." We always sat in the bleachers. I always chose the first row in the far left corner, directly behind centerfield. Today, watching baseball brings some levity, makes me happy to cheer for something that others do as well, especially in the midst of the elections and an increasingly divisive country.

Watermelons, redwoods, wild fantasies

A few weeks ago, I met with this team to discuss an upcoming exhibition. In one hand, I lugged five oil paintings, each one carefully wrapped in fabric. In the other hand, I dragged a bag teeming with the contents of my weekly CSA box, which included a whole watermelon. This is the ideal story of my life: juggling art and food.

I have never had passionate, soul-feeding, creative time that did not involve art or food. I love cooking for dinner parties as much as I enjoy slathering gesso on canvas. (Grocery shopping and stretching canvases, however, are not preparative tasks I like.)

In my wildest fantasies, I'd merge art and food in a creative co-op, nestled somewhere in the coastal redwoods. There would be cabins, wherein each artist would create. Each artist would be financially responsible for his/her cabin, including mortgages/rents, taxes, maintenance, and utilities. We would grow food, keep chickens and bees. Every evening, we'd assemble for dinner, with rotating chef duties for the main course, side, and dessert. Every month, we'd have "open cabins" for sharing and critiques. I can only imagine the wild creativity I would enjoy there, and the long trail runs to clear my mind.

(Some day, my prince will come ...)

Ode to October

I'm on the right.
I am smitten with autumn. It can do no wrong by me. (Even in 1997, when it ripped my heart out and shattered it into infinitely smaller and smaller pieces ...) I love its warm days and cool nights. I love its crisp air that holds the scent of drying leaves. I love that it brings night, my always-welcome guest, around a little earlier each day. Perhaps I love it because it anticipates winter's hibernation, when my solitary self can hide without guilt.

To me, the fall marks new beginnings. This might be a legacy feeling from school years, now sadly long gone. As a kid, it was the only time of year when we got to buy anything with impunity. We got a gross of #2 pencils, probably 50+ packets of notebook filler paper (college-ruled for the older kids, wide-ruled for me and the younger kids), new colored markers, fresh glue sticks ... 

New beginnings also mean change, however subtle. With these comes reflection. I don't tend to reflect on the passage of time with traditional markers, such as calendar years or birthdays. Autumn is my time for reflecting.

What does this fall hold for me? I'm not sure. I feel like I'm in a period of change and exploration. While most autumns have been really invigorating and special, this one is so in a different way. I am more quiet. I haven't made plans, set goals. I haven't seen many friends. I am reveling in whatever each day brings, even if those days implode. I feel grateful for this time.

Creative imperatives

Industrious creator.
My studio is bright and sunny today. The clock reads 6:45AM. This is an ungodly hour for me. I might be up before 7AM if I am jet-lagged or, conversely, have a plane to catch. Today is an exception. The fog has already burned off. I'll have 4 more hours of morning sunlight in my space compared to yesterday.

I am eager to get started. I slip out of bed and pull on my painting grubbies. The floorboard creaks when I reach the bedroom door, which awakens my beau. He groans as he realizes how early I'm leaving to paint. We've been together long enough that he knows there will be far more leisurely Sunday mornings in bed than this particular Sunday, when I'm pulled—compelled—by my creative imperative.

On my desk is a book whose subtitle reads, "How does the impulse to draw something begin?" I might answer this with another question: How does the urgency to create something continue?