It isn’t that I have to make the bread…I get to. It’s just a simple change of one word. A rich exchange that stripes my shirt and hands over the flour. That gives me wings, not to leave the ground (that will all come when the work has been done) but to roll the pin. The turning of drudgery into joy.
Who would I be without the work? Without the baking of bread? The gathering of words and paint. The constant craving of input and output. This exchange we’re making, with the world of AI, I fear, is not a rich one.
Every story of my grandparents is covered in dirt and flour. A marching out to field. An apron dusted. A coat hung with the weight of earth and earthly demand. Each shoe tracking the same. And if the living lies in the work, then so to the loving — the richest exchange of all.
Easy has never meant full. I remind myself on the hard days. Tuck the rolling pin beneath my wing. Flight will come soon enough. Merci.
I’m not sure where it comes from. I suppose it has to be lived. Seen. Maybe it was my grandfather walking out to the field. My mother standing in front of the morning mirror. But I always felt it. This hope. It’s why, I suppose, a rainy day never stopped me from riding my banana seat bike to the summer youth ball field. Soaked and hooded, I arrived in my navy blue windbreaker. It was right in the name, being for the wind, I don’t why I imagined it would stop the rain. And who needed protection from the wind?
With no alerts available, no cell phones, or internet, I sat in the empty dugout. The navy sleeves stuck to my skin like another layer, still full of hope that the rain would stop, the others would show, and we would play. I don’t know how long I would sit. Because of course, I didn’t own a watch either. I was saving for one from Bazooka Joe comics, but I had spent my wad on a plastic camera that I accidentally rode over with my own bicycle, so timeless, I waited.
The rain eventually stopped. It’s ironic, I suppose, I stood outside the dugout hoping the very wind that I was to be protected from, would dry my jacket. I rode as fast as I could. No energy wasted from running bases, I imagined I rode faster than I ever had. My sleeves billowed. Puffing and drying. And when I had pedaled all the wet away up and down Broadway, I made my way past the railroad tracks and went home.
When my mother arrived home after work, she asked me as she did on every game day, not if I won, but if I had fun. Yes, I said, I had fun!
It was maybe the first time I was asked. First grade. Gerald Reed. He leaned toward me, only with his eyes, as not to be detected, and without words, raised his eyebrows as if they were questions. Being as naive as the red ruffles on favorite dress, I continued the conversation with a furrowed brow. He looked to the front of the class. Mrs. Bergstrom was writing something on the board. He mouthed the question. I shrugged my shoulders. He said it again without opening his lips. My cheeks began to ruffle in red, I really didn’t hear him. He decided to risk the whisper, (with the same success my mother had in church), and the whole class heard him ask, “Can you slip me the answer?” Mrs. Bergstrom turned to a sea of laughter and immediately told us to pass our papers forward.
The questions change through the years, but we all find ourselves from time to time, looking for the quick fix. A fast solution. But it’s been the same since Washington Elementary, the only way out is through. I don’t know if my answer would have been right for him. Sometimes it’s hard to know if it’s right for me. But I keep doing the work. And when I forget, I have the answer written on my heart, and on my wall, and it slips inside with a whisper. The answer is still, and again, love.
You wouldn’t even know that she needed it. I made the wooden frame for a brace on the back of her panel. No one will see it. But it will be there to support her. Through the bending power of winter’s humid. And it makes me feel special, knowing it all — the truth of what’s behind her. What’s within. And it makes me love her more, because she allowed it, this support. This loving structure.
The thing is, I suppose we think we’re strong only if we can help someone. But the truth is, it takes just as much strength to allow someone in. To accept the help we may need from time to time. It’s not easy. I know. To let someone behind the scenes.
What’s taught is what’s known. My mother and I reversed roles through the years. Front to back. And with each turning, I thought she was more beautiful, and the amazing gift, it made me feel the same.
We can do this, you know. For each other. Wouldn’t that be something? Wouldn’t that be beautiful?
I missed it the first time checking the mailbox. I went back and read the email. The carrier said it was “delivered to a secure location.” I went back down the driveway. Oh, there it is… I guess for some, delivered to a secure location is simply thrown out of a moving vehicle over the gate and into the bush.
We all have our own definitions.
I don’t know why I called it a bean. Maybe I couldn’t say blanket yet, and certainly not security. It wasn’t big. I’m sure it came with one of my dolls. It had the same smell of their heads, somewhere between plastic and baby powder, and while clutching to my chest, the scent directly went from nose to heart, and I was saved.
There was always a frantic search before leaving the house. I had to have my bean before entering the car that would traverse the gravel of Van Dyke Road. I’m not sure we gave a thought to seat belts, but my mom and I knew that that mini blanket, this would save me.
I suppose it happened naturally. One day it got left behind and I made the journey without it. Maybe it was at the bottom of the laundry. Possibly even in the driveway. Somehow, the security remained. Enough to get me past the railroad tracks, the freeway, the airport.
L’Occitane makes a hand cream with the exact scent. I buy it here in France. It’s funny, with just a smoothing on my hands, I smile. Oh, Bean. I am delivered to my secure location, and I am home.
I thought I must be surrounded by the smartest people in the world. Imagine my grandfather, farming, alone. How could he possibly? (And I also had every “W.”) Who tells you what to do? What is that for? Why do you get up so early? When is it finished? To everything he simply answered that he knew. And once I got my arms around the fact that he gathered in all the information, I was still surprised at his discipline. No one told him the hours to keep or to finish that job on that day. I asked him if he let it go until tomorrow, who would know? I would know, he said. I walked in the certainty of his overalls that shadowed a path to an open field.
I asked the same of my grandmother, as she placed the empty bag of toasted marshmallows on the counter to pay at Jerry’s Jack and Jill. Certainly there were no camera’s at Jerry’s. No one even paying attention. Who would know? I asked. I would know, she said. I started to see a pattern.
Without event or occasion, my mother dressed. Put on her make-up. Faced each day with the scrutiny of the unproperly lit bathroom mirror in our basement apartment on Jefferson Street. Even for a driveway toss of the frisbee on a quiet Sunday afternoon. You already know her answer to the question. But no one is going to see us, I said. She smiled behind her lipstick.
It’s an old table. Most would probably say unworthy of the effort. And I just saw the latest influencer praising the inexpensive IKEA table. And it crossed my mind. But it’s the only table I’ve ever had in my studio. So I began filling in the holes. Strengthening the right bottom foot. Sanding. Filling. Resanding. Painting. Sanding. Painting. I love it. Not many will see it. It will be overshadowed by displayed books and paintings. When I move them to do the work, it will be ready. It will feel the weight of wood and canvas. The pinch of clamps and the splattering of unintentional paint. And I will feel special, because I get to know. Not this arrogance of “Oh, I know!” — but it’s what I had been shown, had been living in — the privilege of getting to know, being involved in the truth of the experience. I got to know them… I had the joy, the work, the breathless chasing, the tender tears, the heart in lap resting love of knowing them.
I won’t photograph the table. But I will stand in its certainty.
A painting will dictate what it wants for a frame. Or some will not need one at all. But once in a while, the sequence reverses, and I will paint an image for a frame. That’s what happened with this little one. It was alone in the thrift store. Empty. But not for long.
To see a need and fill it, before the asking, it’s nice within my artistic world, but my sincere hope is that I can do it in real life. With real people.
I was told once that when someone near you is going through a difficult time, you should never ask them “What can I do?” Of course it is well intended, but now you’ve only added to the situation – given them another problem to solve – how you can help. It’s never easy, or a sure thing, but I suppose the best thing is to just do something. It may not be the thing to solve the problem, but doing something nice can never be wrong. And you can always do another thing.
In that spirit, I’ve painted several small pieces for this frame. They can always be switched out. Mostly it serves as a reminder for me to just keep doing. Keep trying. And I’m not going to lie, it simply feels good. It fills me at the same time as the frame. So I smile and point the question, not outwardly, but inwardly, “What can I do?” And I do something. And that should be celebrated.
It’s Grandma Elsie’s voice I hear. When I sold my first original painting, I told her about the gallery, the people, the price. She clapped her hands in front of her heart and said, “Isn’t that something?!!!!!!”
Of course we had done it with our toys. Our halloween candy. It was transactional and it made sense, this emptying of pockets and putting on the front stairs to distribute with neighborhood girls. A thing for a thing. But everything changed the first day of kindergarten at Washington Elementary. When Mrs. Strand said we were going to “share with the class,” a rustling through pockets and Trapper Keepers could be heard. Were we supposed to bring something? Worried and empty stooped, I sat in panic.
It didn’t turn out to be a thing at all. It was a verbal exchange of our summers. (No one referred to it as summer vacation, because we had yet to do something to vacation from.) When we knew the drill, oh, weren’t our pockets once again full! We spoke of lakes and bicycles. Softball games and skinned knees. Bugs and porch lamps and moms calling for dinner. We had so much to share.
I suppose I haven’t stopped since. The thrill of the exchange has never left.
Moving to France, there was so much uncertainty. Not knowing the culture, the language. Even the color palette was different. There was, I must admit, a lot of “pocket checking.” Did I have anything to offer?
I first heard the word at the dining table. I offered Charles a large piece of a cake that I had made. It was the last piece. He looked at me and asked, “Partager” (did I want to share?) I did. Everything.
I began painting those around me. The world around me. Immersed myself in the palette of Provence. My heart is full. There is so much to share.
A common criticism within the arts is that the piece is overworked. I suppose the same is true with most things. A poem can be too flowery. A batter over mixed. An outfit over accessorized.
“Art is never finished, only abandoned,” is a quote attributed to Leonardo DaVinci. It highlights the fact that perfection is unattainable and creative work is only completed when the artist chooses to stop and let it go.
So I stopped yesterday. On my large painting. And wasn’t it her hand itself that reminded me. You have to let go. It’s so easy to want to add a “but” in there, slip in a “maybe”… but maybe if I, or but I just wanted to… Here’s where I tell myself again and again… I don’t want to live a maybe life.
Sitting in front of the dancing woman, because letting go doesn’t mean you have to be alone, I picked up a small panel, and painted a duck. Some might say a small duck. But this was the duck that helped me move on, helped me feel accomplished in what I had done, satisfied, but not overworked. And as my mother used to say, “Nothing small could do that.”
At first glance, you may have thought her superpowers came from her clothes. But I was witness “after the phone booth.”
I stared at the gravel road, waiting for her to come home from work. First came the puffs of gravel from Van Dyke Road. Then I could see her car. The blinker. And every schoolyard worry exhaled from my elementary body, as she pulled into the driveway. Her skirt and blouse were wrinkle free, just as she had left at 7am that morning. Not a scuff on her shoes as she sat on the side of her bed and placed them back in the box. She took off her run-free pantyhose. Washed them in the sink. Hung her clothes back in the closet. Sweeping down one last time, not to dewrinkle, but more I thought, in thanks of a day well served.
Donned now in her house clothes, her posture never changed. Shoulders back. Head high. Her size 10’s seem to glide across the kitchen floor. “You could be a dancer on the Lawrence Welk show,” I praised. She leaned into her smile and started dinner.
In my newest painting, I’m trying to convey the elegance. You might wonder when you see the curve of her hand, or the strength of her neck, how she could be in a simple house dress. But I know where she came from. I have witnessed the puff of smoke she rose through and above. The canvas is big. I have to stand. To reach. And I know it is the praise she deserves. I raise my chin. I raise my brush. And continue.
