Immediately after graduating college I began painting. I wanted to experiment with the techniques I had learned. I painted right over a school assignment on a canvas my father and I had built together. My dad’s finger ripped while we stretched and stapled, and I’m sure dripping blood somehow blessed the canvas under the gesso.
I wanted to work on realism and perspective so I decided on an image of one of my heros, Bruce Lee. Bruce invented his own fighting style, and was an outcast from his homeland because of it. He was broken but healed, and I truly admired his deep philosophical statements. I found an image with a great perspective of his hand coming toward the viewer and got to work painting. I was living with my boyfriend, his grandmother, Opal, my boyfriend’s brother, Rocky, and my boyfriend’s son, James. There was plenty of space, it was a large place, we even rented out the grannie house to a friend of mine, to add to the communal flavor. I painted on the back porch when I was finished working for actual income. I worked from home (I did freelance drafting and design for an out of town engineering company). The problem with the back porch was it was next to Rocky’s door. Rocky’s door wasn’t really a door. It was a beat up old piece of plywood in place of a sliding glass door. Rocky had broken his sliding glass door in a fit of rage. He was very abusive toward grandma before I arrived. There were multiple punched holes in the walls, and holes through doors, thanks to Rocky’s outbursts. Rocky was a “tweaker,” or a speed addict, and he usually slept all day and hid in his room jerking off or doing whatever people do that don’t work. We took care of grandma, and that was the only thing she wanted, for us to care for her “handicapped” grandson as well, so we did, but begrudgingly. It was the year 2000, so much was happening in the world since it didn’t end at the millennium, as predicted by apocalypse specialists. I kept my paint in a basket, a very nice basket a friend had given me, from Pier 1 Imports. Anyone that has ever visited this retailer knows you can’t buy a basket there for less than $100. So my fancy paint basket filled with expensive paint and brushes that I bought with own hard earned money in the economy size, was valued to a working artist to be approximately worth $500. To an average Joe the value drops to $20 because the average Joe does not care for paint, brushes or brand name baskets. “His arm is all crooked. His hand looks funny.” “It’s a rough draft, asshole.” I just sketched it on before I worked my magic, but thanks for your unsolicited 2 cents. My boyfriend (now husband) is my favorite critic. I worked late one night painting and instead of taking my basket of goodies in with me and dropping them in my office I left them on the porch. It was Friday, I was going paint early in the morning anyway, the weather was warm and perfect; it was dry and cool. I had no worries. The next day I got to work a little later than usual. Ready to attack my piece with vigor, and at least half way complete I was fueled and ready to make some excellent progress. My paints were gone. My basket was missing. I checked my office. Maybe I didn’t leave them outside. I asked my boyfriend if he saw the basket filled with my art supplies. He didn’t. I asked his 3 year old if he played with them, nope, the kid was an angel, I knew he wouldn’t touch them without asking. Grandma was pretty much bed bound, she stayed in bed, read books or watched the news; I knew she wouldn’t be interested in the paint basket. I could count on Rocky crawling from his porn littered, filthy, trash-can, cat-feces bedroom around 2:00 PM to help himself to a giant triple decker, stacked sandwich he’d make from the food that Dan and I purchased for the home. Rocky did emerge from the darkness in late afternoon as predicted, and I asked him if he had seen my basket of art supplies. He had not. He did not look me in the eye, but I was used to that because we were not close and he was usually coming down or on drugs and I was a bossy, no-nonsense control freak. Dumbfounded, I continued a thorough search of the property, to no avail. I did not have the expendable income to purchase new supplies. The painting sat unfinished. I was miserable. Bruce was also miserable sitting on the porch with his crooked arm and weird hand. Moons passed and one evening I laid down to go to sleep about 10:00 PM after I had given up on my basket and the painting. I assumed the basket evaporated into a netherworld (and Mr. Tumnus was using it to impress Aslan). “I saw your basket,” my husband said when my head hit the pillow. I immediately sprang up, fully awake, no longer sleepy. “You’re not going to like it, it’s in the shed.” “What about my paint and brushes?” I was freaking out, getting dressed as quickly as I could. I had checked the shed already, multiple times. “I didn’t see any paint.” That made no sense. The basket was full of paint and other supplies. I grabbed a large mag light and went to investigate. When I got to the shed I was horrified. My basket had been smashed to small bits, right out in the open, walkway of the shed where it had been clean the day before. Before the person smashed it, they had obviously emptied it, because there was nothing but overly priced basket wood pieces, no brushes, no paint, no palette or mixing tools. A wind went into me. I literally flew, like Superman, into the wooden plank door that hid Rocky from the world, mag light in hand, fist first. The noise shook the entire house. I think the foundation cracked as well. “Open the door, Rocky.” I planned on going Tazmanian devil style into that room and destroying everything in my warpath. I was going to give him two seconds before I took out the door--it would not be the first door I’ve smashed through. Something in my voice scared him, and in the next second his hand appeared through the farce of his door with my paint palette used as a tray holding my paints, brushes and other supplies. I took it without a word. I really didn’t want to murder a human, as I’m sure there are spiritual rules against it. I walked away with my things. Rocky continued to be himself. It’s been almost 18 years since that incident. Many more incidents did come up and he has earned his place as a supervised guest in our lives. He is currently incarcerated, which surprises no one. I continued to work on my piece and finally finished it, but I took my time and it is forever tainted with the struggle that went beyond just perspective and balance. Bruce understands, I’m sure.
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“You might as well be a basket weaver.”
These are the encouraging words I received from my father the day I announced my college major. I had just finished my general education at Sierra College, while working at my father’s successful local engineering office. Besides management I was drawing house plans, creating cross sections, designing standard, pressure distribution and sand filtration septic systems BY HAND. I am a pre AutoCad dinosaur. I knew how to manually draft using latitude and longitude, scales, compasses and protractors before the commonly used programs (and cell phones and the internet) were invented. I probably should have majored in marketing or business. My first site visit was pretty entertaining for the contractor at least. I had no idea what the things I designed and drew on paper actually looked like in real life. Walking through the job site with the contractor it looked like piles of dirt, holes and pipes to me. He asked if I wanted to see the septic tank and inspect the pump. Sure. What was I supposed to be looking for? Fake it ‘til you make it. I finally figured it out in the end, counted holes and wrote scribbles on the paper pretending my notes were important. The guy knew what he was doing...hopefully. Looking back, my brother didn’t exist yet, so I was my father’s hope for the future. I am guessing he wanted me to take over the engineering business, which I was pretty great at doing. I almost went into engineering, Environmental science. Peggy Zarillo, originally from the Nevada County Health Department, started working for our Engineering firm and was going to train me to fill her previous position. Peggy was particular and I was a perfectionist. She would only let me draw and produce her engineered designs. We had a good working chemistry and I already had been trained to do much of the work that was required for the county position. I began college at the State level and my major was still undecided. I needed to decide on a major upon completion of my foreign language and religious requirements in order to continue on toward a Bachelor’s degree. My English professor insisted I major in Literature. I scoffed at him. What was I going to do with a degree in Literature? I’m so mad at myself now for that. I probably would have LOVED that course in life and might even be successful, ha ha, by this point. He was a wonderful man and a great teacher, goodness bless Mr. Bill Hotchkiss, a novelist and poet who said my work reminded him of Walt Whitman http://beatnews.jackmagazine.com/hotchkiss-bill/ . He saw something in me that I thought I hid pretty well. I prayed for an answer to my dilemma, and I found my miracle on the sidewalk while I walked around between classes on the college campus. A manhole lid spelled it out. Sanitation. What the? My name is right in the center of that word. S-ANITA-tion. Did I really want to spend the rest of my life designing where poop and pee go? I marched into the next meeting with my advisor and chose Art as my major. It wasn’t easy. I struggled with every fiber of my being to be the best, to get straight A’s, which I did, and to follow my dream to do something great in a field that no one (except other artists) understand. Art is my passion, it’s my heart and it expands beyond my very being. I almost quit multiple times, it was too hard to duplicate the Renaissance master’s techniques. Rip apart the light understand volume then recreate a believable world within this one. Our American society does not respect what I do. My father’s cruel words and disrespect for my profession are engraved in my memory because he has no idea how mathematical art is, how truly complicated each representation is, more so than any of the house plans, or engineered septic designs or plans I drew for his engineering business. My soul is exposed in every piece I show. You get to judge my heart and weigh it every day. I was afraid to write because I may love that just as much or more, but now I do both every day. I’m finally free. If you didn’t notice basket weaving is pretty incredible. Check out the Native American museum downtown and make the tiniest basket in the world for me out of grass you picked at the river then talk smack. Thank you, poop hole. You may have saved my soul. The best thing about being raised by disco swingers is you had free reign to watch "Soul Train" which is a life changing thing in itself, and still one of my favorite shows to date. I also watched the weekly dance off on Dance Fever and never missed an episode of Fame. I fashioned myself as one of the characters on Breakin' and Electric Boogaloo, unfortunately not the girl. We were raised by television as the children now are raised by tiny phone screens. Parents need to ignore their children to survive. Children are so needy, and when you are a control freak it’s hard to care for yourself and the child simultaneously. Something needs to give. My mother is from a foreign land, it’s very different in Thailand than it is in America. I never let her forget it either. We were both born in the year of the tiger, and anyone that studies chinese astrology knows this is a terrible thing. By age two I was rebelling and my mother was trying to beat out the fight. Keep in mind it was the 70’s and that’s how you raised your kids, by whooping them. It didn’t work, and we still have the energy of two magnets that pop in opposite directions when pushed together. I love her very much, and she loves me as well, and now that I have children of my own I understand her unbridled reigns of terror combined with dramatic breakdowns and episodes of mania. Some people shouldn’t have children. That is a fact. It’s not anyone’s fault. Mentally it is traumatizing. These little minions poop and pee everywhere, they destroy all your belongings, they scream in your face. They hurt your feelings and spread filth and disease. Yes, cute babies become your worst nightmares, like when my daughter spread feces all over the walls, doors, bed and herself and then fell asleep in the middle of it (because I didn’t believe her when she said she had to go to the bathroom during naptime). I don’t blame my parents for my childhood that from the outside looking in was probably ok, but from the perspective of the child who at age 7 walked through a disco swinger party and grabbed a couple wine coolers and some menthol cigarettes from the coffee tables and climbed on the roof to enjoy them in continual solitude, not so great. I have no idea what the moral of the story is, but pretty much don’t judge a book by the cover. Everyone thought my parents, who had good money and provided all the necessities “spoiled” me and that I had a charmed life. Did those same people know I got left every day for hours after school waiting for my rides because my parents were too busy to remember I existed? I was in choir, basketball and volleyball for four years, from 5th grade to 8th grade and neither of my parents went to one game, one rehearsal or one event. I was actually pretty good too. At the award ceremony I won best defense in basketball and I served a whole game in volleyball at a championship. I tried to make up for it by attending every game/event of both our kids. We don’t spend money, we spend time with ours. I’m not saying we are perfect, we partied a little hard when our boy, who is an adult now, was a baby. We are trying to make up for something we lacked, and maybe we can. I spent yesterday playing tennis and rollerblading with my daughter at the park. It feels pretty great to be present. She’ll probably hate me when she gets old and complain about all the horrible things I did or didn’t do. I think that is just what parenthood is. There is no right or wrong. |
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July 2023
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