There once was a lady from Lucca

Settle in, because this is a long one.

For a couple of years, I went through a season where  all I could make was angsty art.  I couldn't seem to let go of topics like broken women in the Bible, sex trafficking, world hunger, and deep depression.  It felt like the only way my art was worthy was if it was if I was making a statement that would lead to healing the wounds of our fallen existence.  No kidding.  I was a load of fun at parties.  (Disclaimer:  I do not regret those years.  Hard stories must be told if we are going to move forward as members of the human race.  It's just that I felt like a failure if I wasn't shedding light on the world's ills.) 

And then I entered graduate school, for an MA in illustration.  Oh boy, I struggled.  One example...our assignment was to design a gift bag suitable for a particular market.  One classmate created one for a bridal salon and another, a toy store.  Still another, a reusable tote for a funky organic farmer's market.  In other words, fun, well-executed, and eye catching.  What did I design?  A gift bag that would illustrate the social justice issue of child brides in South Asia.  Cringe.  Not surprisingly, I graduated with absolutely no idea who my "target market" was.

Enter the concept of joy.  Joy? I thought.  I looked at some artists whose work I admired.  Marc Chagall seemed to have the corner on joy as well as pain.  The artist Lisbeth Zwerger creates solemn, yet heartwarming illustrations.  I thought and thought and thought some more.  Then came the glorious day when I was able to let up on myself.  What if, I thought, what if it is okay to create something just because I like it?

I decided to give it a try.  I took some paint and scissors and a blank canvas.  I had a general idea that I wanted to create some illustrations of nursery rhymes, which seemed to be the furthest removed topic I could think of.  I looked up some obscure ones.  How about this?

There once was a lady from Lucca, 

Whose lovers completely forsook her,

She climbed up a tree and said, "Fiddle-de-dee"

And embarrassed the people of Lucca.

I discovered that I like the phrase 'fiddle-de-dee' and that I should work it into as many conversations as possible.  I smiled.  Then came another one:

Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee

The fly fell in love with the bumblebee.

They went to the church and married was she.
The fly fell in love with the bumblebee.

Love. It.  I even laughed a little.  The next few months flew by as I began to look up old, lesser-known nursery rhymes and let my imagination play around with them.  Was I concerned with making a statement?  Were my illustrations technically perfect?  No, and no.  But because I had no target market, those things were irrelevant.  Rather:  

My feet, with their need 

for solid ground,

couldn't 

convince 

my heart

not to set sail.

--Jodi Hills

Lady From Lucca, 2014.

 

La bete noir

La bete noir.  It sounds like a cool indie band, or possibly an obscure but lovely French documentary.

Mais non.  La bete noir translated from French, means THE BLACK BEAST.  And why did I put it in all caps?

Because la bete noir is quite simply the best dessert you will ever put in your mouth.  I recently discovered it when a girl from my Friday Bible study group brought it as the shared refreshment.  After making it three times in one week, I discovered that this flourless torte is super easy, and that twenty-six ounces of dark chocolate is indeed not too much for one dessert.  And that it is a hit for church potlucks, dinner party desserts, and especially that surreptitious eating directly from the fridge just before getting your glass of water to take to bed moment (don't ask.  If you've never done this you will not understand).

I must give credit where credit is due.  After Bible study I asked where I might find the recipe and my friend directed me to a lovely blog called Simply So Good.  If you, like I, only recently discovered what a springform pan was, you will especially appreciate this website because it includes detailed pictures of each step.  And I can't stress enough...you must use the required three layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil.      

And by the way, I am lactose intolerant.  It was worth every bite.

I know, I know...this is Spanish, not French, and as such is not in keeping with the theme.  But, and you know it must be said:

Olé.

Namaste

I recently had an experience that was super hard to swallow, but ended up being sweet.

We all have "difficult people" in our lives.  People who aren't malignant, per se, but ones who bring us into that worst versions of ourselves.  I have one such as that.  At my ugliest, I would use words like sanctimonious and self-serving to describe this person.  Gross.  The best I can seem to manage, on my most graceful day, would be to say to myself, I'll be the bigger person here because I understand grace better than you.  Ew.  Who is the sanctimonious one now?

But today my mind strayed to the Bible, specifically Romans 12:  "If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone." 

But I don't want to do that.

It makes me uncomfortable.

I shouldn't have to be the one to change my attitude, I thought.  My attitude is just fine.  In fact, I am the grace-full one.  Being the "bigger person" and all that.

But here's the thing, the hard part. To get to true grace, I must pronounce a blessing on this person who is so undeserving in my estimation.  I must say namaste when what I really want to say is you aren't worth it.  There is no room for sanctimony here.  Nor is there a place for being "the bigger person."  It is divine healing so far outside of myself that it can only come from God, the Really Real.

So how can I live at peace, both within and without?  By letting this person off the hook, just as I have been let off the hook.  By shutting up and letting the Really Real do his work.

Delicious.

The embarrassment of being pulled over in front of my child's school...a cautionary tale

Two days later, and I am still battling my feelings of humiliation as I remember how hot my face got when I was pulled over for a traffic violation in front of my son's school.  I am not kidding.  I thought such things only happened in sitcoms and romantic comedies. 

I won't go into detail, but to paint the picture, the carpool line starts at the corner of the street.  I was arriving early, had a fresh cup of coffee, and was planning to relax a few minutes with the Kindle app on my phone.  As I reached the corner I saw the dreaded flashing lights.  I had no idea they were for me.  But they were for me, and since I was the first one in line, I had the pleasure of being on view as every carpool parent had to drive around me.  I am still cringing.

Now this starts out as a cautionary tale, but ends in a lesson on grace.  Do you know that not one of the carpool parents ridiculed, gossiped about me, or gave me smug looks?  Oh, I got some looks, but they were ones of sympathy.

So thank you, Grove City Christian Academy parents, for your graciousness.  It has helped my face cool down considerably.           

After graduate school...

I

Here is what I learned...
One question an artist is often asked is, 'When did you become an artist?'
Was it when I sold my first painting?  When I started or completed school?  My first show?  I believe I became an artist when my mother made sure I never lacked art supplies, and when my father set up still lifes for us to draw together.  I knew with child-like certainty that I was an artist. 

After graduate school, I wasn't so sure anymore. That is truly a terrible mental place.  I felt pruned to the ground and maybe like even my taproot was destroyed. (No drama.  That is really what it felt like.) 

Here is what happened next...
I cried a lot.  I took a break, and learned to let myself off the hook a little.  I made some bad art.  But over time, tiny roots of real confidence began to take hold.  It turns out the taproot that was nurtured along by my parents was stronger than I thought.  I am making art that I am proud of.  It is more complete and more true than it was before.  I am finally able to say shalom, go in peace.  

  

The inimitable Mr. Rogers

inimitable - (adj) incapable of being imitated or copied; surpassing imitation; matchless.

  

Go west, young man

It wasn't until I posted this picture on Instagram that I remembered "objects in mirror are closer than they appear."

Whoa...heavy.  And like many heavy things, this is as true as it is weighty.  And surprising.  And not as apparent at first as it becomes later.

Some thoughts on Bob Dylan

I woke up this morning with Bob Dylan in my head.  Specifically, he was singing Like a Rolling Stone, which seems a little odd, I know.

Even though I am a few generations behind, I grew up with Bob in my head.  My father had the vinyl records.  He probably still does.  The ones I remember specifically were Blonde on Blonde and The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.  I felt very cool to know all the lyrics to Most Likely You Go Your Way And I'll Go Mine.  Maybe a little out of touch for the early 90s, but definitely a better break-up song than November Rain.

Bob and I are headed down to the studio now.  And my inspiration?  Forever Young.  The lyrics were recently used in a children's book.  Take a peek.  The illustrations are beautiful, and the book itself is priceless if you have a seven-year-old (which I do).

Enjoy.     

Everything will be copacetic.

Copacetic is a word my grandmother used, and recently my dad rediscovered it when it came out of his mouth unexpectedly.  My mom and I, regrettably, laughed at what we assumed was a made up colloquialism.*  However...

Dictionary.com enlightened us.  Copacetic is an "Americanism of obscure origin; possibly attributed to Louisiana French, Italian, or Hebrew."  Love dictionary.com.  It makes me feel very smart.  In this case, it made me feel nostalgic for the grandmother I didn't know very well.  

Copacetic actually means fine; completely satisfactory.  Wonderful!  In this perfectionist and slick world in which we live, I sometimes feel sub-par.**  So thank you, paternal grandmother, for giving me permission to let myself off the hook from time to time.  Dishes in the sink from last night?  My son having waffles for lunch at 2 pm in his pjamas?  No problem.  Let's all say it together:  Everything will be copacetic.  

Beautiful.  As Louis Armstrong said, 'What a Wonderful World.'   


*col·lo·qui·al   characteristic of or appropriate to ordinary or familiar conversation rather than formal speech or writing; informal.
**sub par  inferior or shoddy. 
 

Shut up

This has become one of my favorite phrases lately.  Not because I want to hurl it at anyone, but rather because, when gently applied to myself, it frees me.  Those two little words liberate me from the self-imposed responsibility of sharing every thought that has ever popped into my head.  Now that I have that freedom, I can come into the Really Real and just be.  Ahhh.

So it begs the question...why, in light of this revelation, did I choose this moment to start a blog?  Ironic.  It just seemed right.