Cats and Jammers Studio

The Best Valentine's Day Present: A New Studio!

Over the course of the many years I have spent making art, I have always made studios where I've lived. In Buffalo, as a craftsman working in fiber, I took a small bedroom in our apartment. Surrounded by shelves of fabrics culled from the Salvation Army and Goodwill, I sewed away making dolls and soft sculpture, while my dog and cat slept nearby. In other places, I worked in bedrooms, dining rooms, living rooms, and kitchens. Most of the time I took over the main living spaces. That was BK--Before Kids--before having to worry about crawling babies and exploring, wildmen toddlers (one of whom literally tried to swing from a chandelier and who also put French Toast into the VCR to see if it would play).

When we bought our second house I took to the basement. In the basement I first had a roughed out corner, and eventually  a new 20 x 20 studio with a light well. I stayed down under for roughly 15 years until we did a second addition which gave me a lovely studio space on the main floor (!) right off the kitchen and in which I have worked since 2002. I love this studio and have illustrated more than 12 books in it.

As much as I have loved the spaces where I have worked,  I have often longed for the kind of space where I could throw up several 4 by 5 foot canvases and really let loose. Now I will have one as I prepare to move into a brand new space in the Gorse Mill Studios building. The building is a 120 year old mill building, smack dab in a residential neighborhood here in Needham, MA.  My space is a little more than 500 well lit square feet. I should be totally in it next month, keeping my home studios for writing, digital work, and office work.

Of course, good things do not happen n a vacuum. In my case good things usually come about with the help and support of my husband. Here are some shots of the "still in development" space, with the best guy in the world taking charge. He actually got up before I did yesterday and went over to the studio and began painting. THAT was the BEST Valentine's present a gal could ask for!

Phil taping the corners, above and below. he had just painted the corner and walls  covered with Homasote.

A view of the sink and looking off to the "thinking corner."

Close-up of the thinking corner. Those are some of my older, editorial pieces on the walls.

Bitty makes her first visit to the studio! It's tiring watching all this activity, so she settles into her new bed.

Phil, doing yet more painting  of the homasote on the other end of the room.

What a guy! And with a bad back,to boot! Is it any wonder that the man needs a rest afterwards?

Thanks, Honey. I'll catch ya later. ;-)

My very best to you, Abe. You deserve more respect than you get.

My how times have changed. Back in the dark ages, otherwise known as the years I went to elementary school, holidays honoring historical figures and times were days we studied and learned about and had some respect for. October belonged to Columbus. November was all about the Pilgrims and the Native Americans (we very respectfully called them "Indians"). And then there was February.

February was much more than just wonderful boxes of Valentines and chocolate filled hearts. February was a presidential month, because we always studied Lincoln and Washington, and we had their actual birthdays off--not various days in a  random weekend, now mostly used for trips to the ski slopes or   to anchor one end of a school vacation week. Hell, we didn't even HAVE February school vacations back then.

With that in mind, I find that I am filled with wonder about  the fact that I have heard no buzz and have read no articles in the papers leading up to the fact that today is the 200th anniversary of the birth of one of our greatest presidents. Maybe there have been some articles here and there, and maybe the morning will bring some others (I am writing this just after midnight) but I haven't caught any.

The post card above is one of the many antique post cards that I have collected. It is a piece  from the patriotic assortment of ephemera that inhabit a small powder room I like to call "The State Room." One of my son's refers to it as the "America Bathroom." Whatever it's called, it is filled with the images of presidents, flags, embroidered maps of the US and so on and so forth. And, it is not just for show. I am truly very patriotic and I love my country.

This card  is one of my favorites. It was printed n 1908 in anticipation of the 100th anniversary of Lincoln's birth. You can see the copyright on the lower right hand corner. And here is it another one hundred years later, looking almost as good as new. The back is not written on, except for the printing which tells us that this card is one of the "Lincoln Birthday Series", and that domestic postage is one cent, and foreign is two cents. I guess one hundred years really do fly by, not to mention the fact that things really do get a lot more expensive. Ask any centarian  around today about value and also how fast life seems to have passed. And while you are at it, ask them what Lincoln's birthday meant in their day.

Happy Birthday, Abe.  Thinking of you.

Finally Welcoming in the New Year

I figured that before the month of January was gone, and before I could actually post about 2009, I would sneak in a last farewell to Holiday Season 2008. I am always loathe to take down my December Christmas/Hanukkah Decorations, and this year was no exception. All this stuff will be packed away this weekend and then taken out again next year, when I will once again drive my family crazy as I look for a real birch tree, then proceed to concoct and build something not really found in nature. Especially lovely is the art of Kevan Attebury, which I proudly show you next to what is really my theme these days of financial uncertainly. Eat, drink and ....

And here is the tree--always on the brink of crashing down.

Happy New Year! Make lots of art in 2009!

The movie. S'Wonderful. And life is, too.

 

Sometime around 1965, I was hanging out at my Grandmother's house in Paterson, New Jersey. I think it was during the school Christmas break. It was the late afternoon, and I was channel surfing, to the limited extent one could back in 1965. Actually, since I was in the NY metroplotian area, that did  mean a serious number of viewing options for those pre-cable times. I had my choice of channels 2 (CBS), 4 (NBC), 5 (WNEW), 7(ABC), 9 (WOR), 11(WPIX), and 13 (which was the "educational station" but I cannot remember the call letters). 

Anyway, I ended up on Channel 5. And there was a movie starting. Might as well watch this, I thought. The movie?  Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life."

From the start, something felt different about this movie. The acting seemed less like acting. There was an authenticity to the kids in the very beginning scenes that rang truer than any other movie kids I had seen--'ceptin' maybe those Little Rascals. And that scene with the druggist Mr. Gower. Nowadays I can't even get past that sequence without crying. But even back in my little 13 yr old head, that was powerful stuff.

And so began the tradition of loving one particular movie for a very long time. My husband did not see the film until we were both married for quite a spell. Needless to say, he loved it. And he cried, especially at the end. In fact, no matter how many times we watch the film (and we have seen it a gazillion times) he ALWAYS cries at the end. Such a sentimentalist. Gotta love him.

Because I love this movie so (especially the character of George Bailey who, time after time, thwarts his own dreams for the greater good of Bedford Falls and those he loves), I was saddened to see it fall into disregard for a spell--put down as corny and cliche ridden, and even --aack!--colorized! One extended family member who shall live in infamy, actually went so far as to say that the God-awful "A Christmas Story" was the new holiday classic. BLECH! That overgrown TV movie, poorly acted (does one stupid commercial really qualify a Messy Marvin to be anything other than a Messy Marvin?) and filled to the brim with one glaring anachronism after another, should be relegated to the bargain bins at Walmart, if that. But "Life?" Nothing comes close to it. It rightly deserves permanent placement on the pedestal that many of us have placed it on.

And so, in this morning's NYTimes, there is a great piece by someone who gives "It's a Wonderful Life" the same  high regard as my husband and I. Check out Wendell Jamieson's take on the movie, including his very funny analysis of what he thinks it REALLY all means. So--maybe "Pottersville" would have been a lot better an end to BedFord Falls than we thought? Hmmm. I'll have to ponder that notion. In the meantime, I will try to watch the film as before, although, I am not sure I can ever look at Bert and Ernie the same way again after reading his take on those two.

Jamieson adds a few nice details that many of us LIFE junkies already know about the film, like the fact at good old Our Gang Alfalfa was the guy who made the dance floor turn into the swimming pool at Harry's HS graduation. In a recent deluxe DVD version I purchased, there is a section filled with additional details, like how they made all that snow, and the fact that James Stewart did that very romantic scene with Donna Reed and the phone call from Sam Wainwright in ONE take. There are interviews with Frank Capra, and a great many facts and figures to learn. One of the favorite  things I learned, (though I do not think it was from the DVD) was that a photographer shot one of those long photos of the cast and crew of the film--the kind with hundreds of people in them--where the camera actually scans from left to right. Stewart and Capra stood at one end, and while the camera scanned the crowd, they ran like Hell to get to the other end, which meant that they were in the photo in two places. That  sense of fun is right up my alley. And knowing that sort of tidbit,  makes me love them and this movie all the more.

Do yourself a favor. Watch the movie. As long as your heart is not stone cold, you will enjoy it.

Happy Holidays everyone! And, more importantly,  "Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan!"

Lots of thanks

I'm gonna make this my annual Thanksgiving image. It is the first color illustration assignment I ever got--a piece on Turkey farms for Boston Magazine back in the 80s. Again, thanks to the late Stan McCray, the art director of the magazine when I was doing art for them and when I was just starting out as an illustrator. Stan was sweet, handsome and fun to work with. Because of Stan I have had the pleasure of being able to be a professional illustrator for more than 25 years.

And that's a good segue to the purpose of blogging today. To remind myself and everyone else to be thankful for all the good that we have.

Good health for my husband and children. Family and friends. Being able to spend time writing and making art.

To the powers that be: thank you, thank you, thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I've been given absolution...

It's been quite a while since I last posted anything on this blog. I know that and it has gnawed at me. It's not that I imagine that I have a regular audience or anything. It is just that this blog is my way of reflecting and processing things that seem to speak to me. And I haven't done that here for a spell now. And I haven't wanted to. And it's bothered me, sort of in the same way it does when you have homework to do that you don't feel like doing.

At first, I was just caught up in a few distractions. I actually had something very specific and very wonderful that I wanted to post a big blog about, but things got in the way. In September, I had taken a trip to the Museum at Bethel Woods, which is essentially the upstate NY location for the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, and, more famously, the site of the Woodstock Music Festival which took place in the summer of 1969.

The museum is so much more than a museum about Woodstock. It is really about the entire decade of the 1960s and the incredible changes in society during that time, with the music festival serving as the climax to all of it. If you have not been, you really need to go, no matter what your age or your taste in popular music.

But I could not get to that Bethel Woods post when I should have, which is right away, after I went. And then, the time had passed, and it even got later, with the winter weather rushing down the pike at full speed. So, that is all I want to say about that right now, because the Museum and the site are really worth a serious and lengthy write up and it's better that I push my blogging about my experience there until the spring or perhaps even closer to the 40th anniversary of the music festival itself, when maybe some people will be inspired to go there and have the experience for themselves.

But surely there have been other things that made my wheels turn and made me want to blog? Well, yes to the former, but no to the latter. Yes, I have been doing a ton of planning and thinking and developing projects. I have new manuscripts. I completed a new picture book dummy. I went away on a writing retreat. Lots of good stuff. But, no, I have not wanted to blog. It is very hard for me to say why, except that my blog is strongly muse driven by a need to share. The blog muse has to kick me in the ass and say, "You must blog about this. You must share this." And she hasn't. And I haven't. So that is it in a nutshell.

And knowing that I have not felt like sharing has gnawed at me. Like having a goldfish with a bowl that needs cleaning, so you just put it in an out-of-the-way place so you don't have to look at it. That's my blog. A dirty goldfish bowl. Problem is, pretty soon, you can't even see the damn fish anymore. Is it alive? I was in fear of letting the fish die, 'cause the longer you let it go, the less you want to do it.

Until today! The water is clear, the fish is still swimming, and the muse is back. Why? Because I have been given absolution that it is OK to only write when I feel the need to. In this morning's times there is a nice piece about "slow blogging." Titled "Haste Scorned: Blogging at a Snail's Pace" and written by Sharon Otterman, I am now happy to know that I don't have to blog at a pace that is not who I am. Sometimes I bustle and sometimes I crawl. And sometimes I am in between. And that's how I blog. And guess what--there are others who blog the same way.

Hallelujah! Absolution! Guilt be gone.

The Oxford Project: I could spend years reading and looking at this kind of material

In past posts I have confessed to an obsession with the passing of time. I have had this obsession all my life. I am not sure why, but I have. On New Year's Eve, 1958, I wanted my grandparents to get me a jar with a lid.

"Why?" they asked.
"Because I want to save some some 1958 air," I told them. "Then I will have a little bit of 1958 forever."

When I look back on this memory, it makes me smile and shake my head at the way a kid's mind works--or at least the way MY mind worked. But I also still feel more or less the same way: very aware of the passing of time and wanting to preserve the present moment for future reference and for experiencing it once more. I guess you could say my little jar of air was my child's version of a time machine. But even though I am not filling jars with the air of time anymore, I still feel pretty much the same now as I did then. It's why I love antiques. It's why I play jukeboxes. It's why I will watch anything produced by Ken Burns. It is also why I read the obituary from my on line, home town newspaper every day: The Journal News, Rockland County section.

Yeah, I know. That sounds like something your grandmother would enjoy doing. Still, I do it. Everyday. Sometimes I see the names of parents of high school friends. Every now and then, I see the names of the high school friends themselves. Believe me, that is sobering. The strange part is that when I see no names that are familiar to me, I have a macabre sense of disappointment: no news, nothing of interest. And then, when I do, I wish I hadn't, because I would really have enjoyed seeing that person again at some point in the imaginary future, even though I have not spoken to him or her for that past 35 years.

One of the nice parts about reading obits is that I also check up on who else died, as reported by the Associated Press. In their little sidebar I learned that Killer Kowalski died even before I saw it in the Times. I learned that silent film star Anita Page passed away at 98. I read about famous Peanuts animator Bill Melendez. And I learned about the death of Jim Hoyt.

Who is Jim Hoyt? Jim Hoyt was the last surviving veteran of a group of four soldiers who liberated Buchenwald concentration camp. Jim Hoyt was a an extraordinary guy and an ordinary guy at the same time, because Jim Hoyt was part of a generation of countless soldiers who fought bravely and namelessly in a war unlike any other, where there was a clearly defined evil of great magnitude that needed defeating. Jim Hoyt lived a quiet life, was not a person of renown, and we would most likely never know about him except that he participated in The Oxford Project.

The Oxford Project, from an editorial quote on Amazon:

In 1984, photographer Peter Feldstein set out to photograph every single resident of his town, Oxford, Iowa (pop. 676). He converted an abandoned storefront on Main Street into a makeshift studio and posted fliers inviting people to stop by. At first they trickled in slowly, but in the end, nearly all of Oxford stood before Feldstein's lens. Twenty years later, Feldstein decided to do it again. Only this time he invited writer Stephen G. Bloom to join him, and together they went in search of the same Oxford residents Feldstein had originally shot two decades earlier. Some had moved. Most had stayed. Others had passed away. All were marked by the passage of time.

In a place like Oxford, not only does everyone know everyone else, but also everyone else's brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, lovers, secrets, failures, dreams, and favorite pot luck recipes. This intricate web of human connections between neighbors friends, and family, is the mainstay of small town American life, a disappearing culture that is unforgettably captured in Feldstein's candid black-and-white portraiture and Bloom's astonishing rural storytelling.

You can visit the Oxford Project website and read some of the stories and see some of the pictures. That is where I went on to read about Jim Hoyt, who's obituary via AP I just happened to catch one day while checking the daily obits at the Journal News. I had never heard of Jim Hoyt, and I had never heard of The Oxford Project, but I am so glad to have discovered both of them. It is incredibly fascinating to see a picture of a person and a picture of the same person 20 years later. That kind of thing has always been my favorite part of the Ken Burns documentaries, and here is an entire book of aging faces, and what makes it even better is that these are ordinary citizens, living ordinary lives that are as meaningful and interesting as any celebrity or historical figure.

This book will be available on the 16th of this month. You can read more on the Amazon link. Needless to say, I have already ordered a copy. If I had thought about it, I would have created this book myself. It is, as they say, "right up my alley."

I do have one question for Stephen Bloom and Peter Feldstein: did you save any 1984 air?

EDITED TO ADD: Please take a moment to read the comment left by photographer and Oxford Project creator, Peter Feldstein. He shares a touching bit of information and an update on Jim Hoyt.

Some very curious curios. Guess all my stuff is not so bad after all....

When I look around my house and see the enormous amount of stuff I have managed to collect and inflict on my family, I sometimes feel...well..a little guilty. I wonder if they would all somehow live a life of minimal objects with a different mother and wife. I think my husband would clearly live is less clutter. He is very neat and organized by nature. Not anymore. I corrupted him. He sort of "caught" whatever it is that has always ailed me, and he now subscribes to the same sort of busy look in decor that he has come to know and love. In a way, my kids have, as well, though I doubt that they will ever be as far advanced with this malady as I am.

With those thoughts in mind, you can imagine how utterly relieved I was to read an article in today's NY Times about renowned urologist and Columbia professor Dr. John Lattimer, who passed away at the age of 92, and left behind a life's collection of oddities that certainly puts my mundane assortments of objects to shame.

I think I would have found Dr. Lattimer to be a kindred spirit. The article points to the fact that he was an only child of two only children. So was I. It mentions that somehow his collecting was an effort to hold on the the past. I agree. And it is more. Somehow owning a piece or two of the past, helps to grasp the present. I would even go so far as to say that it increases understanding of the future.

My husband and I have often joked about what our poor kids will have to deal with when they need to figure out what to do with over 100 cookie jars, even more pieces of carnival chalkware, tons of cowboy stuff, and a gazillion vintage tablecloths, not to mention everything else in this house.

But this we can guarantee them: they will not have to deal with anything even remotely similar to the type of relics being sort by Lattimer's daughter Evan, as she catalogs his vast collection for sorting for auction, discarding, and keeping.

How do I know this? Read the article. What gives me the right to sound so damned cocky, pun intended? This fact: I do not have in my posession, for example, anything even close to being Napolean's penis.....

Ya Gotta Have heart...

Wow. Just when I was feeling kinda low because of the approaching end of summer, I get some heart. Well, that is to say, my blog got "hearted" by my friend the multi-talented artist and author, Carlyn Beccia. And, hey, I didn't even know she had a blog. Don't ask me where she gets the energy and time to blog, write, and draw with a little baby on board.

If you don't know Carlyn's work, ,you should. She has a new book coming out, "The Raucous Royals," and it looks like it will be as wonderful and as darkly enjoyable as "Who Put the B in Ballyhoo."

SO, thanks, Carlyn, for the pick-me-up! I heart you, too!

Aside from experiencing the rainiest summer on record for my whole life, I've been working on a number of projects. I finished the art for Bones book number 7, "Bones and the Roller Coaster Mystery," by Davd A. Adler. That should be out next February. I also had the pleasure of doing a piece of artwork for Theatreworks. What fun! I got to create a piece of art for the production of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing," by Judy Blume. In order to get myself in the proper frame of mind, I listened to Ms. Blume read her own book thanks to the wonderful audible.com. Peter and Fudge were all over the place in my mind's eye. Made for very fun illustration work. Ya gotta heart Peter and Fudge.

I also just completed the owl I am giving to Dr. David White for the Keen Festival owls collection. My owl ships out today. As soon as I can paste together all the scan pieces, I'll share that image. While I was painting my owl, I first listened to Duma Key, by Stephen King, and then Maniac Magee, by Jerry Spinelli. First, remind me not to pay a visit to the Florida Keys anytime soon, and second, Maniac Magee was a delight. It was warm, funny, touching, and, since I am on this whole Heart jag, it had enormous heart. I "heart" Maniac Magee!

So maybe all the rain was a good thing. I did do a lot of artwork. I listened to some great books. Read some, too. And since the weather was so dreary (which I actually like when I am painting), I didn't feel too badly about not being up in NH swimming. At least now that the weather seems to have turned around, I'll be heading up there to get some Newfound Lake swims in before the chill of autumn settles in for good.

And before you you know it, fall will be here, the kids will be back in school, I'll be moving into a new studio, and starting on brand new projects and tending to others that were waiting in the wings. That's one thing I do love about September. It's a time to nestle in and start fresh. Love that feeling. No--I heart that feeling!

Bad Attitudes: Let Me at 'Em

There is a great essay by Margo Rabb in today's NY Times Book Review, called "I'm Y.A. and I'm O.K."

Essentially, Rabb writes about the need for publishers to pigeonhole writing as either adult or Y.A (Young Adult), the need for writers to pigeonhole other writers defined by the market they primarily write for, and the overwhelming desire on the part of many both in and out of the literary world to look down on those who choose to write for young people, period, as though it were something of lesser value. Since I am someone who is only interested in writing for young people, this is such a bizarre thought--that someone actually thinks that writing for the younger set is somehow not as great an endeavor.

I think I can get it with regard to the publishers. I understand the need to categorize something in order to figure out how best to sell it. We see that kind of thinking going on all the time in all walks of life. One need only take a walk through any department store to see how merchandise is presented. Never mind that you might find the identical merchandise in several different departments. Some years back one would say, "I bought this Mr. Tres Chic pocketbook in Filene's Designer section upstairs in the main store." Usually I was the person saying, "I bought this Mr. Tres Chic pocketbook downstairs in Filene's Basement, with 3 mark downs, even." Same bag. Just different audiences.

So, yeah, I’ll yield when it comes to selling the books. Money talks, and nobody walks from one floor to the other, so to speak. And, yeah, yeah, tons of people in my crowd will gladly read YA books as much as they enjoy reading books for adults, but I know damn well that there are people who would rather have root canal work done, than sit and read a book classified as YA. Of course, that group is made up of readers who are victims of their own narrow thinking. They are going to miss out on some wonderful books.

So, I get the ignorance. What I do not get is the bad attitude and need to condescend. That is borne out of stupidity and arrogance.

I don’t get it, but I deal with it and have dealt with it for years. It is the same song and dance I am familiar with after more than 25 years of being an illustrator. Want hear my “stories?” No? Too bad. I am telling them anyway.

1) Years ago, when my husband was a summer clerk at a Philadelphia law firm, we attended a party for the summer associates. One of the partner’s wives asked me what I do. I replied that I was a free lance illustrator. She then turned to a young attorney and said with "a certain tone" in her voice, “And what are you? A free lance lawyer?”

2) I was sitting at a large table at a firm affair and some asked me what I do. I replied that I was an illustrator. Her comment, “But you do you do any creative art?” My “by then seasoned bad attitude” reply was, “NO. I am completely mercenary. Like an attorney.”

3) Finally, here is one that was the worst of them all. Why? Because this was a bad attitude on the part of other artists, like the “averted gazes and unabashed disinterest” that Margo Rabb observed among other writers when they learned she wrote a book classified as “Y.A.”

Not so many years ago, I was at a party. Hey—social event. See a pattern here? Only difference was that this was not a bunch of lawyers, who really don’t know better much of the time, so I tend to forgive them. THIS was a bunch of “creative types.” This was an assortment of people who should have known better.

Anyway, someone introduced me to a couple.
“Barbara, meet so-and-so. They are artists, like you.”
“Hello,” I said. When I asked them about their work I found out that they were husband and wife landscape painters from nearby Cambridge, MA.
“And what do you paint?” they asked.
“I am an illustrator,” I replied. And before I could get a single other word out of my mouth about my work, they QUITE LITERALLY TURNED THEIR BACKS TO ME without a word, and walked away. Just like that. Forget that I was very successful at what I do. Forget that the kind of landscapes they paint would probably have me finding it more exciting to sit in my backyard and watch my suburban lawn grow. At the sound of the word “illustrator” they immediately deemed me unworthy. At a lower level.

Like writers who poo poo writing books for young people.

Like readers who poo poo writing and reading books for young people.

The older I get, the less I can tolerate bad attitudes. Too bad these things happened to me when I was much younger and, therefore, still polite. Not now. I am at the age where I will not suffer fools. Pity the poor jerks now. I like to think that I would eat them for breakfast.

I am very glad Margo Rabb wrote the essay. But I am totally pissed off at what she had to experience to make her want to write it. Makes me spittin’ mad. Furthermore, now that I think about it, what I would really like to know is: where are those self-important, jackass landscape painters, anyway? I have a few words for them….