Coffee And Paint Drips Blog - Page 69 of 79

Had it in the Fun House. Now Where’s the exit?

It’s Monday morning and my day has been well under way for hours. I awake most days at around 6:00-6:30AM, no later. My usual routine is to get myself together and go to the kitchen to get the coffee started. Must have coffee. In an old post I told you how I like to make coffee in my old fashioned Corning Ware stove-top percolator. Old school style, I know, but drip just doesn’t offer the aroma of perked coffee. Sorry, just doesn’t and what’s a morning without the coffee wafting through the house?

I get the coffee going and make lunches for the Mr. and Son #2. Son #1 is married and out so I’m down to the three of us. I bring in the newspaper from the sidewalk and read it with my coffee. It’s the perfect time of day. If I’m lucky I write the Morning Pages while they’re still asleep. Most days that doesn’t happen and I write after they leave for the day when my time is my own. I write every day.

The Morning Pages, from the book The Artist’s Way, have become a lifeline, as I’ve said before. I write the date and time at the top of the page and then all this stuff starts pouring out of my head, through my arm, the pen, and to the page. Then the fun begins. Good thoughts and ideas, stupid stuff and dopey people wind up in the pages. Lately the focus has been on my own resistance, and the dopey people. Every day another block. Every day another thing from these dopey people. The pages are supposed to help one see where one needs the most attention. Okay, my resistance I’m working on, but how about the dopey people?

I’m being mild here when I say “dopey people.” I’d like to call them something else, but I’m just not that way. How long can you excuse their actions by calling it jealousy? This is no longer 4th grade no-clue stupid stuff, but real life adult dopey people. What are you supposed to do, hide in a cave? In a previous post I was talking about reading Walking in This World, how other people try to fit you into how they’re used to seeing you, but they can’t now that you’ve become who you’re meant to be. Okay, find a better mirror, but how long does it take? When will it be over and how do you get out of the fun house?

Here’s a scenario. Let’s say there’s a young person who loves doing a thing, and someone a little older loves doing the same thing, that’s nice. Over time they grow older, learn more, become more talented, more interested, more adept, more out there with this thing they love, and do it better than the older person. Suddenly, the older person is annoyed, upset, surprised, and combative. Just because the younger person grew up and became more of who they really are, and is better at the thing than the older person will ever be, why is that a problem? Why can’t the older person say, “Good for you! Look at how you’ve grown and what you’ve become!” No, this previous mentor becomes the aggressor, the enemy. We’re talking about an adult with responsibilities, children, in an adult world having a tantrum, pouting, screaming, ignoring, sulking, pounding their chest like a big ape because they’re surprised this younger person showed them up by doing the thing they love to do differently, better, new. “Since you’re doing it like that, now I’m not going to be your friend. He has a swelled head.” Give me a break. Who really has the swelled head?

What keeps coming up in my pages is the question, “Why?” I know I said in the other post that people are jealous when you grow. But, how does the word jealous cover all this dopey person’s stuff? I can’t figure it out. I’m hoping that in writing about the negativity it will dissipate and the morning pages will give me an answer. I need to know how to react when I see said dopey person. Soon.

Photo Friday

“Oh, I’m bound to go where there ain’t no snow

Where the rain don’t fall and the wind don’t blow

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains…”
(lyrics to 1920’s hobo song)

Enjoy the weekend!

Thursday Thought

“Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.” ~ Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

Dreaming

How do You Spell "R-E-S-I-S-T-A-N-C-E" ?

Doodling at the allergists office today

“Resistance’s goal is not to wound or disable. Resistance aims to kill…Resistance means business. When we fight it, we are in a war to the death.” ~Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

A reader left a great comment on this blog after yesterday’s post and it had me thinking all day. Go ahead to yesterday and read the comment. I’ll wait.

In his book The War of Art, Steven Pressfield writes that resistance is insidious. It keeps us from doing our work by telling us anything it can think of. It, and I’m assuming that’s the scratchy voice in the head, will lie, seduce, bully, cajole, deceive, reason like a lawyer, or hold a gun to your head like a robber. Resistance will double-cross you as soon as you turn around. And, he says, if you believe any of it you deserve everything you get because resistance is full of crap. I had better buckle up.

So, my question to you dear readers is this: “How do you fight resistance? What form does it take, and what measures do you use to battle it and win?” I’m very interested the things different people do to work through all the junk and push the resistance aside.

Please feel free to leave your comments. I could read all the books in the world and still have trouble with resistance. Maybe what works for you could spark an idea for me.
I’m looking forward to it, bring it on.

The "F" Word

Despite the fact that I’m in the middle of reading two books about artist’s block, resistance, whatever you want to call it, I’m allowing all that to continue right about now. The only positive thing is that I can identify it for what it is. And what it isn’t is the big “L” word: lazy. Lazy is not an acceptable term in the Artist’s Way and War of Art vocabulary. Not acceptable. The acceptable term is the “F” word: fear. Why fear, you might ask? Fear takes many forms, some of which seem like lazy, bored, tired, distracted. All of this stems from fear. Fear is the really big “F” word.

What’s fear got to do with resistance to create? The obvious fear is of failure. The talking in one’s brain that says “Why’d you put that color there? What’s up with the composition? How come you didn’t think before you messed up that painting? It was coming out so well and you went and ruined it. Dang!”

On the same track is the fear of success. Now that’s a heavy one! Feeling good about a work and having others agree brings the fear of being out there, the fear of the next piece not being as good, the fear that now the artist is the focus. And that scratchy voice starts saying, “What’s your big problem, you idiot? Get your stuff out there!” Big thing, that fear.

I can’t wait until the morning so I can write the Morning Pages journal to tell the voice to shut up.

Then the blocking comes in and all work is at a standstill. The play stops too. The excuses not to continue begin and that annoying voice starts yapping anew: “The light in the studio stopped working altogether. Until I call that guy to fix it I can’t work on the painting. I have to pay a guy to come and fix the light and money is tight right now. I’m tired of all the snow, I may as well have another cup of coffee and watch the flakes fall. I feel blah. I’m annoyed at so and so. Maybe that work is not as good as they, or I, think it is, what do they know?” Get the picture?

Oh yeah. I’ve become well aware of Resistance alright. I know it, I can feel it, I’ve identified it, and I still can’t move through it, even by the process. The War of Art, as kick butt as that book is, is not kicking my butt hard enough! Do I need to have someone put a garbage can on my head and bang it while kicking my butt one foot after the other?

Something clicked on in my head while painting my son and his bagpipe, and I know that fear took over. I was too happy with the way it was coming along. Anytime I feel really happy and good, something happens to squash all the good vibes. He began to have an issue that came to light since I started the work and I think I’m feeling resistance to continue because somehow, in my mind, I feel, I don’t know if this is the right word but, responsible for it in some way. It’s a long, stupid story, but what he’s working on, and having a problem with egos, involves him playing that bagpipe. So the primitive side of my brain says it was my fault he had to confront someone by standing up for himself and his art.

Is it realistic? Nah, probably not, but my brain may be using that as the block of the moment,(that and my other to-do’s.) Sure, why not? Looks like Resistance is hanging around longer than I’d like. He’s outstayed my generous welcome and the time seems to have come for me to kick his butt out the door. (Notice I’ve given it a male gender.)

Anger is powerful, too. Anger is action. And enough is enough.

Photos for Friday

Can you guess what this is? Yup, again! Enjoy the weekend, I’ll be shoveling snow.

Thought for Thursday

“The enemy is a very good teacher” ~the Dalai Lama

The War of Art

While on my latest Artist’s Date at Barnes and Noble Booksellers I came across a book I’ve been hearing about titled The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. Since reading and using The Artist’s Way series to try to figure out why I have such a hard time going to the studio, this other book kept popping up. Seeing it at the book store felt like it was meant to come home with me. Even though I really enjoy borrowing books from the library, this one in particular was one I wanted to own. I know this kind of book is the kind that I need to go back to pages to re-read, crease the spine, pencil in notes in the margins, a well used book.

When I opened the book to skim through at the store I knew it was for me. Same idea as in The Artist’s Way, but more in the style of New York City street talk. Tough and to the point language. The Artist’s Way is a more cerebral, ethereal, methodical, useful course, which I am totally enjoying and it’s working for me. The War of Art is plain in the sense that in way fewer words and pages, it lays it all out in straight out English. It’s a quick kick in the pants to get you in the creative mode, fast. Boom!

The author, Steven Pressfield, has written The Legend of Bagger Vance and The Gates of Fire, among other books. In this book he’s talking about the artist having a hard time sitting down to do their art. He calls it Resistance and his book is about the secret to overcoming it. Resistance is what keeps us separated from our calling, whatever that happens to be. He asks why do we have to hear the doctor say “You have six months to live” to do all the things we always wanted to do in life?

Why “does Resistance have to cripple and disfigure our lives before we wake up to its existence?”

“If tomorrow morning by some stroke of magic every dazed and benighted soul woke up with the power to take the first step toward pursuing his or her dreams, every shrink in the directory would be out of business. Prisons would stand empty. The alcohol and tobacco industries would collapse, along with the junk food, cosmetic surgery, and infotainment businesses, not to mention pharmeceutical companies, hospitals, and the medical profession from top to bottom. Domestic abuse would become extinct, as would addictions, obesity, migraine headaches, road rage, and dandruff.”

Mind you, this is just the introduction! This is going to be a fun read I can tell you that right now. It’s a take no prisoners, no B.S., sharp as a tack approach to the artist’s block.

Taking these two different approaches together, I think, is going to be powerful. I’ll let you know how it goes as I continue reading this. Wish me luck!

28 Years Ago and Everything is Fine

Twenty eight years ago today I gave birth to Son #1. Every year that his birthday rolls around we tire him out by telling the story of that day. Indulge me as I remember it and take some time off from whining about art.

Going merrily about my business and into my 7th month of pregnancy with Son #1, I was still working at my job as a paste-up/layout artist for a Hearst Corp. subsidiary producing technical products magazines and trade catalogs. Yes, at that time there were such people called commercial artists. There was a bullpen of us cranking out camera-ready pages by hand, drawing mini computer chips and the like, before we had any idea what they were. It was a great place to work with a wonderful creative atmosphere of diverse artists. Almost everyone got along, discussed our favorite mediums, exchanged ideas, and laughed alot. Working there was a really good experience. My doctor’s appointment was on a Tuesday and I was wrapping up my final week at this job, expecting to ready myself for this child to come in two months.

At the appointment my doctor commented on my swollen feet. Then she was wary about my blood pressure. After that she remarked about my urine test. Looking at me steadily she asked if I had a headache to which I answered, “Not at all. Why?” She told me I had to go immediately to the hospital for bed rest, don’t pass go, don’t collect $100, call someone to bring me a toothbrush and pj’s and have them drive me to the hospital ASAP. “But I’m going to work today. Can’t I just go home? What’s going on?”

Three days earlier I dreamed of my husband’s late father, whom I had never met, but had seen in photos. He and I were sitting at a kitchen table, his fingers knitted together on one knee crossed over the other. He wore a black French beret on his bald head and he said to me, “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.” At the time I had no idea what that dream meant.

It was 11:00AM, I called my mom, didn’t want to drag the husband from his new business if this was going to be nothing, and we went to be admitted at the hospital. Bed rest? Never happened. At the last of the many readings they took, my blood pressure reached 190/110 and the doctors said, “That’s it! This kid is coming out now!” It was 2PM and I was headed for surgery. I was in a fog when they told me I had pre-eclampsia and I had become a pressure cooker.

Can you imagine all the craziness that was going on with my family when they found out I was hopistalized? Who called who, when, where, what, everyone upside down with the news. This baby was going to be a preemie with all the complications that come with that. He weighed 4lbs. 11ozs and 20 inches long, like the size of a chicken! His lungs were underdeveloped, he was jaundiced, and at one point he had apnea, he stopped breathing. I was still in a medicated fog. Family rallied around and we came through it. After he spent five weeks in the hospital we brought that baby home! A happy, happy day!

In the early 1980’s there was a popular song, You and Me Against the World, and I used to think that was me and my son. At that time most young mothers stayed home with their kids while their husband worked. I always felt like we grew up together, I was younger than most people having children today. We spent our days together. He was my buddy, my side-kick, and my friend. As calm a boy as he was before he was born, he was, and still is, a pleasure to be around and a generally happy kid. We could take him out to eat and not be embarrassed. At four years old he new how to order from a menu and ate like a person.

Today our little boy is 28 years old, married two years to a wonderful girl, an artist in his own right as a self-taught musician of many various traditional Greek instruments, and we are very proud of him. Every birthday I remember my late father-in-law’s words and thank him for letting me know everything would be fine.

Happy Birthday to you, son!