The past few days were a blurb of moving related activities and I hope to write about them for Saturday's post. In the meantime this post was written recently, after my last tour of my new digs...
I need to name this place, this place I’ve been calling my unit. If I were on the lake side of the building it would open up all kinds of cottage/beach/lake theme names that might sound pretentious as a sign labeling the door to my unit. But what the heck, lake and boating people can be like that. I mean people into other kinds of recreation don’t, say, name their golf clubs or their favorite running shoes but people who love the water do tend to name their dwelling place and water craft and from day one I’ve thought of this place as my artist’s cottage on a lake. A place where I am no longer a slave to the rhythms of home maintenance and I’d finally be able to be creative without feeling guilty because something else needs doing. I visualized myself painting, knitting, writing or quilting with a regularity that makes new rhythms in my weeks that are independent from whatever Mother Nature has going on outside my window panes.
When someone here asks me what unit I bought on this campus I usually joke that I’m in the cheap seats which I am. There are far fewer units in my building with under 1,000 square feet than there are the larger places with lake views. And if I was not on the main floor the view from my side of the building wouldn’t be so bad. From the two floors above me you can look past the parking lot to the woods where our recreation building/library is located. I love those woods. There’s a couple trees along the walking path that I’ve never seen before and one day I’m taking my Michigan Tree book out to identify them. That walking path is no more than two shortish blocks long but I love it and the best part is I don’t have to rake the leaves that fall this time of the year or pay someone else to do it.
My Artist’s Retreat or My Writing Cave both have a nice ring but then people might expect to see some of my work. It will be months if not a year before I’m ready for prime time with painting, if I’m even able to get my skill levels back which is doubtful. I’ve never been great with mixing colors but I’m hoping that getting my cataracts removed will help with that. Sounds good in theory but its really closer to the old joke about the guy who asks the doctor if he'll be able to play the piano after his brain surgery and the doctor says "Yes" then the guy says, “Great! I never could before.” Back when I breathed, ate and dreamed art 24/7 I had better dexterity, too, for detailed work so I’m thinking I'll need to develop a whole new style and quit obsessing about being a portrait painter. I’ve decided to start with the basics---values, shapes, shading, lines and textures---like a beginner, and see what I can do with simple exercises before I try to metaphorically sky dive without taking the time to pack a parachute.
As for revealing that I think of myself as a would-be writer or that I spend so much time in front of my keyboard trying to hone the craft, I seriously doubt that will happen anything soon. The kind of stuff I write takes trust to show it to people in my off-line life. I don't show my underbelly to people I've just met, who might not understand my sense of humor or they turn out to be laced up tighter than a girl in a Gone With the Wind era corset. If you’ve been reading me for very long you’ll know my inner thoughts are not always chase, charitable and demure. But I also never looked for sinners around every corner like the Church Lady crowd did when I was growing up and who still occupy too much space in my head. It should be easy to figure out who is on the Church Lady List on this campus and I’d tell you my secret Litmus Test but then you’d think I’m as bias and judgemental as those I’ll claim are too pious to like me.
Having a space for painting that has north-facing light is a biggie in the art world. When I first saw my big windows facing north I’m not going to lie, I felt a chill run through my body. I dreamed of a studio with northern light so much when I was young that it was almost like walking into an Old Master's painting. They all painted their studios at one point or another, even if it was just as background to a naked lady on a settee. There will be no naked ladies (or gentlemen) on my settee but seeing my north light on a sunny afternoon was almost orgasmic. Please note: I've taken a lot of nude figure drawing classes back in my heydays and orgasms just don't happen in nude figure drawing classes; it's very serious business with no lustful thoughts or conversations going on.
Robin Williams did a fantasy movie about traveling through heaven then Dante’s hell to save his wife and bring her to heaven. What Dreams May Come had the most beautiful special effect of walking into a wet oil painting of a lake and becoming part of the actually painting when Robin's character died. It’s the way I want to go, using my imagination to transport me to another time and place. And that's a strong possibility if you believe---as I do---that our heaven and hell are whatever we believe them to be. God, I'd like to see that movie again but I'm almost afraid to. Have you ever felt that way about a movie that touches you deeply, that you 're worried a second viewing will break the magic you felt the first time?
How about Jean's Hobby Den or My Hobby Cottage? They're whimsical without giving anything away. Dreamer Inside might also work or The Daydreamer's Den. ©
