There was a large pool of water originating from my dishwasher, speedily traveling to my dining room. I didn't see it, but my feet did and I nearly lost my footing.
A week before a repairman came and found nothing wrong with my dishwasher which had been releasing rivers of water whenever it wanted. The repairman told me I was using the wrong soap. I looked at him skeptically. Because I have reached the age where I'm trying to save time by being honest, I told him that that didn't seem like a good assessment for such a large problem. He told me a long story supporting his argument and we parted ways. To alleviate my concerns about his diagnosis, he ordered some parts to come to my house, just in case I needed to call again. A few days later, assorted sizes of boxes appeared in the mail to repair the problem I didn't have.
Finding a puddle of water again in my kitchen wasn't unexpected.
This time the repair company sent Len. I had never met Len, but he came to my front door with a smile and I let him in, my dog barking frantically. He came in the house and set a large canvas tool box on the floor. Then he placed an industrial laptop on my kitchen counter and asked, "Okay, what's the problem?"
I told him of the water. I told him about the soap diagnosis. And I gave him three oddly shaped boxes which contained mystery dishwasher parts. Len looked at me and said, "That guy must have been new. It wasn't a soap problem, I can tell you that much." Len spoke strongly and confidently. He did a series of tests via trial-and-error to see if it was the motor or the gaskets. He ran the dishwasher empty. He couldn't recreate the problem, but he believed me about the puddles of water and he persevered.
Len punctuated his findings with stories. About an old lady who put undiluted dish soap into her washer and found herself in a sea of mess. He told me about how he saved up money for his son's college education. He told me that he had the same dishwasher as me and he hoped to high heaven that it never died because, in his words, "they don't make this kind of motor anymore." These words both comforted and frustrated me because I work my appliances hard so I buy strong brands.
In one story, he described how his wife emptied the dishwasher. First she slid open the top shelf where the glassware sat and lay a towel over it to absorb the water pooled in the top of the cups. As he spoke his hands moved musically in the air as if he were invisibly removing all the contents of a dishwasher. His story was so simple and lovely and ordinary that I was mesmerized by it. He smiled with his eyes. He must have a special relationship with his wife. Her, and his dishwasher.
He told me that my machine would benefit from a special cleansing solution once every 6 months. "Listen," he said, "at my company, they'll tell you you need this stuff every 3 months, but you don't. Every 6 months will do the trick. Now I have some of this stuff on the truck, but it's twelve dollars to you. You can easily go to Target and get it for half that price. I need to tell you this because some lady on social security got mad at my buddy for not divulging this information. Either way." His honesty was so beautiful that I paid the twelve dollars right there. In my mind, I paid six dollars for the solution and six dollars for the stories he told.
He noticed that I had a Kenmore Elite fridge that he was thinking of getting. He seemed like the kind of person who would appreciate frugality. I proudly told him that I bought it on Craigslist, a little pre-dinged. "My kids will ding it up anyway," I said. I told him the one thing I didn't like was the flow of water from the fridge door. Within minutes, I found myself showing him the plumbing in our basement while he spoke of a saddle valve a quarter inch in diameter which would alleviate my water valve problem. Then he told me of a specialty store which carries these parts that no one else sells. "You know where the mall is?" he asked. And then he described in great detail how to find this little hole-in-the-wall place. "Even my company doesn't sell these parts."
After a half hour of chatting while he worked, I realized that this man represented so many other hard-working older men in my life who are largely invisible. They're old school. They change their own oil. They repair their own appliances and get their lawnmower blades sharpened every mowing season. They trim their own bushes and make sure their driveway is sealed every year. If you go to their garage, they have all their tools outlined on a pegboard. A lot of these men grew up in hard times and learned to do everything they could to make a living. They have difficulty paying other people to do work which they can do, despite the fact that their age is creeping and their knees are creaking.
There was something about Len's build and candor that reminded me so much of my paternal grandfather that I almost wanted to hug him. Who knows. He may have hugged me back.
When he left, I secretly hoped my dishwasher would break again so I could hear his stories.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Saturday, November 7, 2015
The Stories We Tell
When I was a little girl, I sat across the table from two women. Both women had artistic backgrounds. I can't remember exactly how the conversation started. Maybe I showed them one of my pastel drawings. Not sure. But somewhere in the conversation the two women began to bemoan the loss of their friend, art. They spoke of art as if it was a memory, wistfully. I remember that moment because I remember thinking, "That would be so sad to have to give up something you love."
My early days as an artist were very preachy. I drew pictures of the Vietnam War and such. I forced symbolism and layers of meaning upon simple drawings.
One of my most liberating art classes happened at Montgomery College in Maryland. Watercolor 101. In this class I learned about pre-planning the color applications (generally dark colors last) and about letting my brush strokes be swift, simple and strong. Watercolor is perfect for people who are overly controlling. Once you take a saturated brush to a lightly dampened page and see the tendrils of pigment shoot, you just have to stand back and marvel. Don't touch it too much. Let it do its thing.
One day in class our teacher had us paint the portrait of the person to the left of us. The lady to my left was a very talented and refined painter. I held great respect for her work. She was a petite asian woman with glossy black hair. Since art class generally is messy, we didn't dress up. We often wore old clothes or smocks. And for some reason this dear lady who I admired didn't tend to brush her hair either. It was the 1990s so grunge was in trend anyway. So that day in class, I painted a portrait of her which very closely resembled her. It was a profile painting, which is generally easier to do for me, because the outline of the face is strong and clear. I was so caught up in the flow of the painting process, that I painted her hair exactly as disheveled as it was.
After class two things happened. First, my model looked very unhappy. She left quietly. And secondly, my teacher approached me with what can only be described as a split expression. She could tell that I had hurt this person's feelings. At the same time, the art produced was aesthetically pretty good. I remember the ache in her face as she struggled to convey this.
The next class the lady brushed her hair. And ever after. I felt sad that I made her feel so badly.
In this same class there was a lady studying art therapy. After each class project, the students hung their art at the front of the class and we took turns critiquing each other. This process was very helpful to see where we could improve and where we were strong. At nearly every critique session, this particular student looked absolutely paralyzed. Sometimes her paper was nearly blank and she would introduce her painting by saying, "I WAS going to put a tree here..." and then she would look at us expectantly and trail off. The process was always so disappointing.
I think that if we look at art the same way we look at making dinner, then we would see that people simply want to eat something. They don't need something fancy all the time. Just food. And sometimes the most simple of meals proves to be the most memorable of all. Sometimes dinner flops and you order pizza. But the point is: You don't give up on eating. You still need to eat. You still need to make dinner and try. At least put something on the plate. With any luck, you'll start to make food with more consistency and flair to the point where you won't even need a cookbook anymore. But make something. Anything. We need to eat.
It seems to me that art is less about color and brush and medium and firing and casting and more about showing up again and again and choosing the right story to tell. More about the time we allocate to composing an image. More about what we don't say rather than what we do say. And sometimes art offends. Generally I find that art simply wants to draw out a truth and offer it for contemplation. The truth could be as simple as, "Have you seen this color? Isn't it amazing how it interacts with its neighbor?"
I'm never offended when people say, "Well, I could do that" upon seeing a piece of art. The reasons for this are threefold:
1. I'm glad. That means the art was edited well. A lot of strong art looks accessible and easy to reproduce.
2. It means others might join the chorus. Great. Engage your creative side! Let's all respond to this magnificence called life.
3. Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you have the time or heart or patience for it longterm. By the argument that "I could do that," we would all be expected to do all the professions and that just won't work for me. I don't see myself being a teacher anytime soon. I respect people who do it, however.
I have spent a lot of my life trying to quiet my artistic side. Tone it down. I went into marketing and branding. It's a fun line of work for artists. It pays bills for making pretty pictures and telling stories. Hopefully true stories. :)
But there's still a part of me that longs for my own voice where no one else is saying, "Be this. Say this." And for that, I'm thankful that I can take a few simple tools and put together shapes and colors and textures. So thankful.
I'm hoping to expand my designs, but I'm not in any hurry. The wise Elizabeth Gilbert was quoted in an interview as saying that she told her art something to the effect of, "Listen, I don't need you to support me. I will support you. I will wait tables or whatever it is so that you can exist." And some might say that her art is purer and fresher for it because Elizabeth wasn't burdening her artistic endeavors to bring food to the table.
Maybe so.
As I approach the five year mark of making calendars, I marvel at how many people said, "Hey, that's fun! I want that in my life." They let me have a little voice, a side of their kitchen cabinet or a section of their cubicle to say, "Hey, this is worth noting."
I sketched and reflected and edited and tossed and then people bought images of the result of this process. That amazes me. Art is like buying a piece of meditation. What a gift to have people speak into each other's lives.
What a gift, art.
What a gift, people.
What a gift, life.
My early days as an artist were very preachy. I drew pictures of the Vietnam War and such. I forced symbolism and layers of meaning upon simple drawings.
One of my most liberating art classes happened at Montgomery College in Maryland. Watercolor 101. In this class I learned about pre-planning the color applications (generally dark colors last) and about letting my brush strokes be swift, simple and strong. Watercolor is perfect for people who are overly controlling. Once you take a saturated brush to a lightly dampened page and see the tendrils of pigment shoot, you just have to stand back and marvel. Don't touch it too much. Let it do its thing.
One day in class our teacher had us paint the portrait of the person to the left of us. The lady to my left was a very talented and refined painter. I held great respect for her work. She was a petite asian woman with glossy black hair. Since art class generally is messy, we didn't dress up. We often wore old clothes or smocks. And for some reason this dear lady who I admired didn't tend to brush her hair either. It was the 1990s so grunge was in trend anyway. So that day in class, I painted a portrait of her which very closely resembled her. It was a profile painting, which is generally easier to do for me, because the outline of the face is strong and clear. I was so caught up in the flow of the painting process, that I painted her hair exactly as disheveled as it was.
After class two things happened. First, my model looked very unhappy. She left quietly. And secondly, my teacher approached me with what can only be described as a split expression. She could tell that I had hurt this person's feelings. At the same time, the art produced was aesthetically pretty good. I remember the ache in her face as she struggled to convey this.
The next class the lady brushed her hair. And ever after. I felt sad that I made her feel so badly.
In this same class there was a lady studying art therapy. After each class project, the students hung their art at the front of the class and we took turns critiquing each other. This process was very helpful to see where we could improve and where we were strong. At nearly every critique session, this particular student looked absolutely paralyzed. Sometimes her paper was nearly blank and she would introduce her painting by saying, "I WAS going to put a tree here..." and then she would look at us expectantly and trail off. The process was always so disappointing.
I think that if we look at art the same way we look at making dinner, then we would see that people simply want to eat something. They don't need something fancy all the time. Just food. And sometimes the most simple of meals proves to be the most memorable of all. Sometimes dinner flops and you order pizza. But the point is: You don't give up on eating. You still need to eat. You still need to make dinner and try. At least put something on the plate. With any luck, you'll start to make food with more consistency and flair to the point where you won't even need a cookbook anymore. But make something. Anything. We need to eat.
It seems to me that art is less about color and brush and medium and firing and casting and more about showing up again and again and choosing the right story to tell. More about the time we allocate to composing an image. More about what we don't say rather than what we do say. And sometimes art offends. Generally I find that art simply wants to draw out a truth and offer it for contemplation. The truth could be as simple as, "Have you seen this color? Isn't it amazing how it interacts with its neighbor?"
I'm never offended when people say, "Well, I could do that" upon seeing a piece of art. The reasons for this are threefold:
1. I'm glad. That means the art was edited well. A lot of strong art looks accessible and easy to reproduce.
2. It means others might join the chorus. Great. Engage your creative side! Let's all respond to this magnificence called life.
3. Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you have the time or heart or patience for it longterm. By the argument that "I could do that," we would all be expected to do all the professions and that just won't work for me. I don't see myself being a teacher anytime soon. I respect people who do it, however.
I have spent a lot of my life trying to quiet my artistic side. Tone it down. I went into marketing and branding. It's a fun line of work for artists. It pays bills for making pretty pictures and telling stories. Hopefully true stories. :)
But there's still a part of me that longs for my own voice where no one else is saying, "Be this. Say this." And for that, I'm thankful that I can take a few simple tools and put together shapes and colors and textures. So thankful.
I'm hoping to expand my designs, but I'm not in any hurry. The wise Elizabeth Gilbert was quoted in an interview as saying that she told her art something to the effect of, "Listen, I don't need you to support me. I will support you. I will wait tables or whatever it is so that you can exist." And some might say that her art is purer and fresher for it because Elizabeth wasn't burdening her artistic endeavors to bring food to the table.
Maybe so.
As I approach the five year mark of making calendars, I marvel at how many people said, "Hey, that's fun! I want that in my life." They let me have a little voice, a side of their kitchen cabinet or a section of their cubicle to say, "Hey, this is worth noting."
I sketched and reflected and edited and tossed and then people bought images of the result of this process. That amazes me. Art is like buying a piece of meditation. What a gift to have people speak into each other's lives.
What a gift, art.
What a gift, people.
What a gift, life.
