Trash, Pride, Art

There seems to be a theme emerging. (famous last words if I ever heard them)

Yesterday, I talked about feeling so proud of my kid I could just burst. And I'll be damned if it didn't happen again.

So let me ask you a question. If your kid came to you, excitedly said "Mommy! I have a present for you!!" and stood there, hands behind her back (clearly holding the treasured object), eyes filled with absolutely-certain-that-you-are-gonna-love-this anticipation, what would you imagine that she held behind her back? Really. Stop and think about it. What would you hope was back there? A picture that she drew? A story? A cookie? A diamond? A perfect report card? A stiff drink?

Okay, got that image in your head? Think about it, and don't show your card to anyone else.

This is what my 9-year-old daughter gave to me (I mention her age only so that you know that this isn't one of those oh-how-cute or oh-how-sweet stories that automatically go along with anything a three year old brings you, like a piece of lint or a half-drunk bottle of spring water)


Yes, they are exactly what they look like. Smashed eyeglass frames, minus the temples. "I found them in the parking lot! I think they must have gotten run over lots and lots of times because they're so flat!"

Yes, I know this might not have been what you imagined she was holding behind her back, barely able to keep it hidden, her excitement so great. Me? I swell with pride. That's my girl.

She picked them up because they had been run over a lot of times. She picked them up because they reminded her of my late father's glasses (I agree, and what a great reason whether I agree or not). She picked them up because they were "cool". But more than anything, she picked them up because I have taught her that this is a great habit. (Public Service Announcement: Purell-lovers, time to stop reading now). She picked them up because she thought I would appreciate them and include them in some future artwork in some fashion. She was right.

On my birthday, a little over two years ago, she and I took a walk to my favorite restaurant for breakfast. It was the highlight of my day. I carried a plastic ziploc bag, as I usually do, so that the odds and ends found along the way would have safe place to rest until it was their turn to become part of something new. We call it treasure. We've always done this.

"Let's look for treasure!"
"Yeah! Let's!"

When she was a toddler, I would ask if she wanted to go for a walk--with me, with her babysitter. Her answer was often a resounding "No!"--not only because she was two, but also because she is a kid who likes to "stay close" and always has. "Will you bring me back some treasures?" And she's out the door.

On my birthday, it was a long medium-short walk to the restaurant, and a longer walk back, as we had to take a different route, becuase what if there is other stuff on the other streets?

Within the first five minutes, an elaborate story had begun. I had nothing to do with it. It was a story about a spacecraft from another planet that had landed in this neighborhood and had left some broken parts scattered around, and if we could find them all, they would give us vital clues to the identity and location of the visitors. So we looked. And we looked. And we found important clues, let me tell you, from infinitesimal slips of paper with words on them to pieces of circuit boards to metal washers. I can't tell you the story. Number one, it's classified. You know how that alien stuff is. Our government is crazy about that stuff. I don't want that kind of trouble. And Number two, it's our story. Mostly hers. And it might be true. Nobody knows for sure, do they?

With every treasure found, I feel as if I have succeeded. I have succeeded in conveying the art in every object, art that might not have existed had the item not been run over so many times. I have succeeded in communicating the potential for new life and creation out of the mundane, broken, and discarded. I have succeeded in representing the world as a place where a walk can become a grand adventure to a distant planet, where a bent penny can be the first line of a story yet to be written. I have succeeded in relaying that life is filled with magic.

When she gave me these smashed eyeglasses, she was thrilled. But I am quite certain she did not think I could (or would) use them to see. Hey, no one is right about everything.

Does it get any better than this?

Gratitude and Art: Rantings of the Anti-Oprah

Today, I am a woman.

Oh. No. That's the other thing.

Today, I finished something I started. That's almost as big an accomplishment. Today is March 31st (Happy Birthday, Judy!), and it is the last day of the National Blog Posting Month challenge to post every day. I'm feelin' pretty good about it. (Yes, I re-upped for April. I'm that sort...I need a little nudge. I might be crazy for re-upping. I'll let you know. At least I get a new badge!).

But here's what I really want to say: Oprah* really ruined that whole gratitude thing for me, and I'm not afraid to say so.

Here's the thing. Some fine people in my life have suggested that I do just that--make some list, mental or otherwise--once a day, maybe before bed, of the things I am grateful for. It's a good idea. Maybe even a really good idea. It's even the kind of idea I might have suggested to people at one time. But then it was co-opted by Oprah and "keeping a gratitude journal". I don't know. It was a great idea when I wrote it down and stuck it in an envelope for future reference, but then when Oprah licked the envelope....eeuuugh. Somebody got a breath mint?

I say this with full awareness that there are some, maybe even many of you, who are somewhere on the like to love spectrum about Oprah. I may be cast out from the sisterhood, I know. I'll take that chance.

I used to like her, way back when. A little, sometimes more than a little. But that's when she was a talk show host. You know, before she was a prophet, before half of America read what she told them to read or thought what she told them to think or voted for who she told them to vote for or shushed people when she spoke or cried when her dog died or felt personally involved in her struggle with weight. Hey, I struggle with my weight. Does anybody care? No. Nor should you. Yeah, I get it that that's because I'm not a media celebrity, but as I said in a prior post, I do NOT get the cult of celebrity at all (with the possible exception of Joan Baez, since I once hyperventilated in her presence...I'm all into full disclosure here) Your neighbor struggles with her weight. Probably somebody you work with, or somebody you're related to struggles with their weight. Why is Oprah's fat so much more fascinating than anyone else's fat? You know, that's all it is, right? Fat.

I'm not even religious, but maybe it's that whole golden calf thing from way way back in my history somewhere--it just looks and smells and feels like idolatry to me (and you know what they say about ducks). My skin crawls when I see people go ga-ga over celebrities--what they say, what they do, what they buy. It nearly tops my list of things I don't get. At the risk of dating myself (hey, who else have I got to date?), I didn't even get the Bobby Sherman thing (who is a cop now, by the way). "Maybe that's because you were a lesbian," I can hear you saying. I wasn't one then. I don't think so.

There. I said it. A double whammy. Bobby Sherman AND Oprah. And just to show you how nice i am, here are some rocks to throw at me. I'm ready for ya.

But since we're on the topic anyway (not that you had a choice), people also talk about the "responsibility" that comes with fame. Giving back, building houses for people in New Orleans, giving money and name to worthy causes, donating a fabulous auction item for a certain Boston women's chorus who happens to be having a big fundraiser coming up in celebration of the 5th anniversary of equal marriage in Massachusetts.... Well, how about the responsibility of reminding your followers that celebrities are....well...people. Where is the celebrity who is promoting the Getting People-To-Think-For-Themselves Association? (If you ever hear of an episode of Oprah in which she tells everyone to stop listening to her so blindly, let me know. I'll tivo it for sure.)

Well, of course, you knew this was coming. It was in the cards. I hate to disappoint, so here it is:

So.... I don't keep a gratitude journal. I tried once. I tried to get over the Oprah-ness of it, and bought a special little notebook. I wrote in it once. Now I use it to make shopping lists. It just made me feel like I had to buy a snuggie, eat Hamburger Helper for dinner, and get my teeth whitened. Ya know?

Which is NOT to say that I'm not grateful. [Ah, she's finally getting to the point! Yeah, I hear the collective sigh of relief.]

Today was a very challenging day. Several bad things happened, any one of which had quite the potential to send me on the rapid downward spiral with which I am far too intimately acquainted. But I was saved.

Okay. Stop laughing. Right now. Stop laughing that I used those words "I was saved".

I was saved, as ever, by art (I have written every day for a month, and I have never written about art, which is incredible.) Not art in a museum. Everyday art. All kinds, including the kind that my new friend Kelly writes about in her blog. I don't know how art could be any more beautiful than that.

I am grateful to be a person who sees art (and an art project) in everything. So when I found myself needing to take a two-mile walk when I didn't expect it (don't ask), I noticed things. And I took pictures. They may not look like art to you. They look like art to me.

That last one, the now defunct and vacant Polaroid building, has hundreds of small glass windows, which made me obsess about doing a community art project where people bring their old square polaroid pictures and put one in the center of each of those glass blocks (each is probably about 5" x 5", just the right size to "frame" a photo) and take a Polaroid photo of it. You just can't get upset about the reason that you have to walk two miles when you're obsessing about an idea like that.

I came up with it. Don't be getting any ideas.

And the other thing I did (those of you who have germ issues, time to cover your eyes, plug your ears, and hum) is pick stuff up. This is an old habit. A very old habit. I pick stuff up, I make jewelry out of it. I name the jewelry (what? you didn't know jewelry had names?) after the event that resulted in my finding the stuff, or the street that it was found on. It's happened for years. Here's today's treasures:

I know, they don't look like much now. But they'll be great when they're done. I'll post a pic of the necklace when it's done. And yes, it has a name. Maybe by then, I'll be ready to post that, too.

And speaking of media celebrity, check THIS out!! Next thing you know, I'll be telling you what to read!!

*No, I didn't link to Oprah's website, even if it would bring me readers. Yeah, I'm a blogsnob. Why should this medium be different than any other medium? (See, there's that religion coming in again....must be the season) But Bobby Sherman, now THERE'S a different story.