Category: art

Sunday with Frida

The Good Man and I had a chance to be up in San Francisco this weekend. The occasion was a visit to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Since June they have had an exhibition of Frida Kahlo‘s art.

I have been a fan of Frida for a while now. Her work so heavily influences any female artist, especially anyone interested in Latino art, and so for me, it was vital I attend this show.

I came in, as we all do, with one set of expectations, that I’m not sure for were met.

But I’ll be thinking about this exhibition for a while.

While at the library the day before we went to the show, I saw a book on the “new fiction” shelf called “Frida’s Bed.” It is one author’s fictional account of Frida’s last thoughts before she died.

So that’s also coloring my view, I suppose.

About the exhibit, however… First and foremost, it was CROWDED. We’re into the waning weeks of the show and I think I’d hoped it wouldn’t be so packed, but I was wrong.

At more than fifty years after her death, Frida is as popular as ever. Moreso, it would seem.

The people were stacked up to see her work, which was both heartening and annoying.

Heartening because many young women were there, and seeing that it’s ok to express your pain, your rage, your upset is important. It doesn’t make you less of a woman. Frida gave good pain, I’ll say that. Sometimes it’s hard to look at her work, it’s emotional and physical pain is so plainly laid OUT there. I admire that, to be honest.

The show was equally annoying because it was damn near impossible to spend any time with the paintings. The queues were insane, and the best you could do was a Chevy Chase “Vacation” style nod at the Grand Canyon, then move on.

This frustrated the heck out of me, because what’s fascinating about Frida’s paintings isn’t what’s apparently obvious, it’s what she’s hidden in the small spaces.

She has secret jokes, or darker images, that she places in her work. Sort of passive aggressive, actually. Both TGM and I had trouble spending the time we needed with each piece, instead shuttled through quickly as the crowd surged behind us.

Many of the paintings were much smaller than I’d imagined them to be. Then again, the famous “Two Fridas” was MUCH larger than I expected, taking up most of one wall.

I took all of it in, thinking I would come out massively inspired to go and paint and release my inner demons. Instead, the story told in all those frames reminded me of a difficult time in my life and a difficult relationship. To say I find parallels between the troubled relationship between Frida and Diego Rivera is to undersell it a bit, but that’s close enough for explanation’s sake, I suppose.

And being far less brave than Frida, I’m unwilling to dissect it here, publicly.

That said, as we came to the end of the exhibit, I ended up in a bit of a dark mood. That was from the remembering. Ultimately, I was also happier and held the hand of TGM a bit tighter. He is a life raft, a parachute, water wings and all other really good metaphors I can’t think of right now for someone who rescued me from the abyss, and gave my life meaning again.

With that in mind, I brought up the question to TGM over lunch…does “art” always have to be sad?

Can I paint a canvas that expresses my joy, the peace in my life now, the exquisite love I have and still be taken seriously as an artist?

I’ve never bought into the fact that misery was a pre-requisite.

Maybe art really is what you say it is…

Anyhow, one way or another, Frida’s work moved me greatly. It will be with me for a long time.

Pilgrimage to Meet My Heroine

FINALLY, after waiting not so patiently for SO long, August 21 got here.

Why’s that important, you ask?

Well, yes, it’s my Mom’s birthday (Feliz Cumpleaños, mi Mommy!), but there was something else arriving on this date. Rather, someone else.

Last evening, The Crafty Chica brought her Spread the Sparkle Tourto San Jose.

Kathy is touring in support of her new product line, now available in Michael’s stores (yes, even one in Albuquerque).

I personally have dropped fat cash on glitter, hot hot papers, charms, bracelet kits and more.

Kathy brings a Dia del los Muertos vibe to her products (and her art) and she’s made it totally accessible for your average Josephine like me.

I got the chance to hang out with Kathy again last night and was nervous as heck! I was astounded that not only did she *remember* me, she called me by name.

Kathy has such a fantastic vibe and is chock FULL of energy. I get totally drawn in by her magnetic charm!

I think I’m so into The Crafty Chica because it’s amazing to see someone who’s made it by 1) having, yes, TALENT, 2) working hard, 3) and being a genuinely nice person.

There are folks who have “made it” and you wonder why or how they got there. Not so with Kathy. She’s earned every tiny glitter sparkle of her success and it shows.

I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t get any photos to share. I’d FULLY intended to get a picture WITH my Personal Goddess, but I got SO geeked out, I forgot.

I was driving home last night smacking hand to head over and over….

Oh well.

I’m sure in this crazy life, if it’s meant to be, our paths will cross again.

For now, to Kathy, you’ve given me NEW inspiration to kick my crafting back into gear. I’ve an Esty store to get set up!

THANK YOU!

The iTunes Phenomenon

One of the really cool features of iTunes is Sharing. So the deal is, when there are other people on your same network, if they turn sharing on, you can listen to their iTunes library. Not copy, but listen.

Cool, no? Working in an office like I do, there is a whole long list of other people’s music I can check out. I’ve found some good stuff this way. For example, it’s how I got turned on to the Gypsy Kings.

I’ve also been on the sharing side. I say without shame I’m the proud owner of “Ultimate Daryl Hall & John Oates”, a two disc best of compilation. And I’ve discovered LOTS of people are really into Hall & Oates, because they stop me in the halls and comment on listening to my iTunes Library.

But here’s what gets my OCD up…

When I look at other’s iTunes collections, they are SO neat and quite tidy. Full albums. All band names and titles in their proper place. Neatly arranged and ordered for maximum findability.

My library on the other hand is a mish-mash. One song from an artist here. Six full albums from another artist (*coff*FleetwoodMac*coff*) over there. Chock a block full of “iTunes Artist of the Day” downloads from Starbucks.

And then there are the oddball Christmas downloads leftover from the Napster free-for-all days. No, the RCIAA didn’t come after me for payment on that copy of Billy Squier‘s “Christmas is a Time to Say I Love You”. I’m sure they snickered when my download log came across their desk.

Comparatively, my iTunes library looks like a twister came through and jumbled all the pieces.

Ah well, I hit “shuffle” and it all seems to work out.

The other fun thing about Sharing on iTunes is that you learn a LOT about people based on what music they have in their collection.

The most startling so far is an older gentleman I work with. A quiet gent, hails from Ireland and speaks with a soft brogue. Been married over forty years, kids long raised, he’s a quiet respectful guy.

His iTunes library contains, and I’m not making this up:

Pussycat Dolls
Jessica Simpson
Ashlee Simpson
Britney Spears
Rhianna

Just to name a few. TOTALLY unexpected. He claims he enjoys these artists for the music……

Then again, what does MY iTunes library say about me? Hmm……I think I’ll go uncheck “Sharing” now…

Fuming

I’m still fuming a bit from something I encountered while in Albuquerque about a week ago.

Having been raised in New Mexico, I’ve always been a fan of beautifully crafted silver and turquoise jewelry.

I had the privilege of living near some of the finest Native American craftsmen who create works of art, and I’ve never taken that for granted.

Over the years, I’ve always been on my guard and tried to buy from reputable people where I know the jewelry was not only handmade by Native American people, but the gems were real and unique.

So while in Albuquerque near Old Town, I had occasion to visit one of my favorite stores where I know the pieces are always legitimate and beautiful. That place is called Casa de Avila and it’s been a place where a lot of my paychecks have gone over the years.

The real stuff, the good stuff, isn’t always the least expensive stuff.

So after buying a couple items there, we wandered out onto the plaza. I saw the row of people selling their wares on blankets laid out on the sidewalk and yes, it took me back a lot of years. Even as a kid I knew how to get in there, find something nice, and work with the artisan on a fair price.

Seeing this again, I was fired up to take a look.

For quite a while I’ve been looking for a particular necklace. A real turquoise graduated bead necklace, like this only longer and in blue turquoise.

That necklace, made by hand (meaning hand shaped round stones) with hand matched beads is VERY expensive, but really a masterpiece.

You can find some like it that are machine matched, shaped and strung, sure.

I’d like a handcrafted piece. Let me just say this….VERY expensive.

So as I strolled along the row of merchants there on the sidewalk, I spotted a really nice looking necklace. I looked at the gentleman who was selling the works, a Native American man, and thought “maybe this is the one”.

I walked past his stand to look at what else was out there, told The Good Man “I may be about to spend a very lot of money” and went back to place where’d I’d spotted that necklace.

I kneeled down and picked up the piece that had caught my eye.

Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. For a long necklace made out of turquoise, it was really light. And it didn’t have that sleek cool-to-the-touch feel in my hands.

Hmm.

I remember over the years a lot of articles and conversations about how to tell if turquoise is fake.

Something I read once said hold a lighter up to the piece. If it’s plastic turquoise, obviously, it will melt.

Not having a lighter on me, I tried another trick. I took one of the beads in my fingers and pushed my thumbnail into it. On that warm Albuquerque day after sitting in the sun, it felt sort of…soft. My nail sunk in a bit, just the tiniest amount, but enough to tell me this was a genuine Native American-made piece crafted of incredibly fake stones.

I put the necklace down and walked away reeling. I told TGM what had happened and he gave the guy the benefit of the doubt, “Maybe he needs to sell a piece like that so he can buy real turquoise”. Maybe. Yeah.

But the tag on it said “genuine turquoise”. It’s a lie.

I didn’t actually price the item (it wasn’t on the tag) and maybe should have. If he’s selling it for $20, then fine. I have a feeling that’s not the case.

I’m not naïve, yes, I know this kind of thing still goes on, and the caveat “buyer beware” is still very much in effect.

I was just mad at first…then later sad. I’d hate to think that someone visiting my fair New Mexico would get swindled. But yes, I know it happens and I can’t save the world…

By the way…I support Southwest Indian Foundation. They work to help folks in trouble through sales and also via donations.

And they have a beautiful selection of genuine pieces at reasonable rates.

Observations

Subtitled: The World According to Karen

On the CalTrain this morning coming in to work (commuting always the best place for random observations of human behavior):

A very mild mannered looking Asian man in tweed coat with elbow patches was seen white-knuckled-clutching a thick stack of bright red paper slips. I wondered what they were.

As I passed the racks holding maps and schedules, I saw the red slips. “Customer Complaints” they said at the top and featured several inky black lines down the page.

I wondered. What did that quiet well-dressed man have to complain about? In quantity.

I envisioned him at home angrily scratching out all his perceived failures of the CalTrain system, feeling better as each slip is completed, shaky hand taking a drink of a whiskey neat as he does so.

At the Semi-Well-Known sorta Italian chain restaurant on Sunday:

A schlumpy dressed man escorts a *gorgeous* leggy woman dressed to the nines through the front door. His eyes dart around the room. When the hostess asks how he may be helped, he says, “It’s busy here…we’re going next door, they have a bar!” To her credit, the hostess just smiles and says, “Have one for me…”

As The Good Man and I had our dinner, we observe the place next door is having a special night and is *packed*. More so than the place we’re at. So schlumpy man and hot chick (clearly dressed for a date) wouldn’t have stayed there either.

I envision them darting from place to place, schlumpy man never satisfied with the situation. This one too bright. That one too loud. That one over there has a funny smell. An evening long quest.

Woman’s feet are now tired in her four-inch platforms. She thought she’d be sitting more, sipping a nice Cabernet. Schlumpy man finally settles on International House of Pancakes and calls it a night. Beautiful and usually well-kept woman calls it an early night.

I envision that Schlumpy man’s phone doesn’t ring, no email in the inbox. And he wonders why.

At the local chain drug store:

A large man of what appears to be the Italian persuasion walks through the store, talking to himself. At first I think he’s on a mobile phone. He is not.

He’s got all the stereotypical accoutrements of a Guido from Joisey. He’s wearing dark sweatpants with rounded boiler belly pushing at a stained button down shirt worn under a nice looking navy blue blazer. With gold buttons. I can’t tell, but I think little anchors are imprinted into those buttons.

Hair is slicked well back. Tarnished gold-rimmed dark-lensed sunglasses in place over his eyes. It is early evening.

He toddles off to collect his requirements. I forget about him.

We find him again on line behind us. I have to return an item. When I got in line, there was no one else. Now there is a long line. Clerk is confuzzled about the return process. So everyone waits. On me.

Guido has set down his purchases on the rolling belt. It consists solely of a large bag of potato chips and two fo’ties (fourty ouncers of Coors. I’d have placed him as a Miller or Bud man. Maybe Coors was on sale.)

I’m currently reading a novel about a guy who is a hit man for a “made man”. This colors my outlook. I’m thinking, “I’m gonna get popped for making this guy wait.” My eyes go shifty.

Guido cracks a joke. About the cake mix on my pile of purchases waiting on the cashier. He says, “That takes too much work, you can just buy that already made!” and laughs a too-loud belly guffaw. I laugh nervously. My Brooklyn-born fiancée kibitzes with Guido. They laugh together. Guido isn’t mad, just impatient.

I discover Guido is probably just another lonely guy in suburban California. Happy to have had a few moments interaction with some other people.

I envision him driving off in a battered black Lincoln or Caddy, body in the trunk thumping as he whips around the corner on his way home to watch Sopranos reruns.

I remind myself not to take the fiction I read so literally.

At the well-known trendy natural and organic foods market:

The muzac is playing over the PA system. On this day they’ve chosen 80’s hits. Clearly appealing to the Gen X crowd that makes up much of their clientele.

Loverboy is in the air. “Only the Lucky Ones”

Soon to be middle-aged Girl remembers how her sister used to LOVE that band. She had the album on vinyl. The cover replete with the buttocks of Mike Reno clad in red leather pants with crossed fingers. Album titled “Get Lucky“.

Girl used to borrow her sister’s album and play it over and over and over. All those burgeoning teenage giggly thoughts about gazing at Mike Reno’s arse come bubbling up in her soon to be middle-aged mind. She remembers.

And she begins to sing along. In public.

She finds her mate. And decides to entertain him by doing a full air guitar solo while singing along.

And people walk by…unnoticing. Intent on finding their steel cut oats or their Kombuchi drinks.

I envision the Girl and her mate having a long happy life together.

Mainly because The Good Man is tolerant of my antics.

I love making character studies from the world.

You can’t make this sh*t up.