Vivian's Artistic Adventures

Mission Accomplished

2011-11-05T17:27:00.000-07:00

I started planning to come home early two weeks ago. It began after I read a BBC news article that described the political and financial turmoil in Greece. With riots and protests happening every day and with Athens in utter chaos, travelers were being warned to avoid Greece if at all possible. I checked with the US State Department to see what they had to say about traveling to Greece and they issued a cautionary statement that basically said 'If you're going to Greece, you are strongly encouraged to fill out a form letting us know where you intend on going" which I interpreted as "If you are going to Greece, please fill out this form so we can find your body after you've been murdered in the streets of Athens." After looking at the article, the State Department, and conferring with some informed people, it became clear that Greece isn't a safe place right now.

My plans for Greece had been made since May 2010. I'd been looking forward to this trip for a year and a half, but there comes a time when a gal's gotta step back and look at the risks involved. As a solo female traveler, I just didn't feel comfortable with going into a country brimming with tension and financial disaster.

After I read the BBC news article about how Greece was supposed to 'run out of money' by mid-November and how strikes have effected everything from public service to airlines, well, (after much thought and wrestling with myself) I decided to change my plans and come home. I just didn't want to get stuck in a country half-way across the world, alone.

I'd been seeing the warning signs about Greece's problems since before I left in July, and I lowered my head- intent on finishing this trip "Come Hell or high-water". But when the headlines described the growing issues and possible pending chaos, well, I realized that the only thing keeping me going was my pride. Two weeks ago, I put my pride on the shelf and bought my ticket home.

I flew from Paris on Sunday and only told two people about my coming home early so that I could surprise my family. I phoned my brother, Hunter, and we conjured up an elaborate plan to sneak me home and ambush my parents. Arriving back in the US tired and haggard and hung-over from four months of artistic adventures, I slept for almost four days straight, caught a cold, and flew into Spokane yesterday.

On my flight to Spokane, I sat next to a photographer who heard about my adventures and I explained that I was going to surprise my parents. Showing great interest in the story, he offered to photograph Mom and Dad's reaction. We devised a plan and waited to get off the plane to sniper attack my poor, unsuspecting parents who thought that they were at the airport to pick up my brother.

Everything went as planned: Mom cried, Dad looked like he was going to pass out....I can't wait to see the pictures (thanks, Jose Garcia from San Diego for being willing to photograph the moment).

As bummed as I am that I didn't get to see Greece, I am comforted by a few things.
1. Since my residency on Paros is paid for and since I have a flight credit with Aegean Airlines, I am allowed to return to Greece within the next 12 months and still complete my residency (hopefully Greece will be calmed down by then).

2. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished these past four months. It just felt right to come home now.

3. I get to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family.

4. I don't have to see my Mom cry when we Skype anymore.

In my heart, I know I met amazing people, forged life-long friendships, and created pieces of art that I will cherish forever. The people I met in Sweden, Iceland, and France changed me in so many ways. Every single friendship I made pushed me to be a better person and a more thoughtful, considerate human being. I've made friends ranging in age from 15 months to 71 years old and hailing from New York City to Holland to South Africa. I have been influenced and pushed. I have cried and felt hurt. I have healed and grown. I have learned what I am capable of. I have seen landscapes that have brought tears to my eyes and I have felt the joy and excitement of new experiences. I return to Washington with a clearer vision of who I am, who I love, where I long to be, how incredible Ferry County is, and how amazing my friends and family are.

Because of all this, I am satisfied.

My heart is full and I'm happy to be home.

Mission Accomplished.

PS. I tried my hardest not to out-right lie on Facebook about my time in Greece. That's why I have been so silent this past week and why my postings have been vague. Sorry for the brief moment of confusion.

SURPRISE!

2011-11-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

I'm Home. =)

If I Have Kids

2011-10-31T15:00:00.000-07:00

All my friends are having kids. Not a day goes by without someone posting a picture of their newborn or featuring a cute video of their drooling bambino. Countless friends change their Facebook profile pictures to feature an ultrasound photo and couples galore announce that they’re expecting.
I remember about eight years ago when my friends started getting married and I felt the peer pressure to get hitched too. Eight years ago it was Spouse Season and now Baby Season has rolled around. Although I am not currently married and don’t foresee having children in the near future, I can feel a little bit of the Baby Season pressure and it’s entertaining to imagine what my children would be like.

I remember a specific day about a year and a half ago when I was sitting in my counselor’s office, trying to explain what I was feeling.

“I’m no spring chicken anymore! By the time I settle down again, get married, and even think about having kids, I’ll be 45 years old and my ovaries will be dried-up old raisins by then!”

Pam, the counselor, just shook her head and laughed. I had told her of the pressure I’d been feeling to have kids because that’s ‘what people my age do’. I explained I felt afraid that time was slipping past me and I’d end up all alone with a Hope Chest full of stuff I couldn’t use. Pam just listened like a good counselor does and then asked a question I’ve been thinking about ever since:
“Who’s timeline are you on? Who told you that you have to have kids before you’re 30?!”

The question left me stumped. Why was I organizing my life around what other people were doing? Why not decide for myself if and when and how to (fill in the blank: get married, have kids, pursue another career…etc.)?

It was Pam’s question of “Who’s timeline are you on?” that reinforced my idea to go to Europe and paint for a while. I wanted to do something adventurous and it fit on MY timeline.

So, I don’t have any kids right now, but spending this past month babysitting my cousin’s children and seeing how character (habits, mannerisms) is shaped at such an early age HAS made me think about what kind of kids I would probably have.

They say that kids imitate what they see their parents doing and I know that my children would be very skilled at the ‘monkey see-monkey do’ routine, so I figure that half of their behavior would come from observing their animated, somewhat spastic mother.

The other night, my cousin’s four year old son, Alasdair, kept getting in trouble for being a goof at the dinner table, he was loud and kept trying to get everyone’s attention. I was highly annoyed until I realized that I had spent each meal doing the same thing. Alasdair kept getting in trouble for being obnoxious, but he was only copying what he saw me do. I’d tell a story and use extra large hand gestures and too-loud sound effects, and then Alasdair would do the same…but he’d get scolded for it. Elodie, the baby, has developed a very loud cackling laugh after I arrived Ger and I have the sneaking suspicion that her piercing laugh is an imitation of mine.

In continuing with my theory, the other half of my child’s character/personality/presence would be purely genetic. Considering the fact that, physically speaking, I was abnormally small for my age and I didn’t exceed fifty pounds until sixth grade, I wince when I imagine what my children would look like. Also, my mother’s side of the family is genetically skilled (cough) at making puns and silly plays on words and also knowing a lot of trivial information and then feeling obligated to share it with people. My dad’s side of the family is famous for holding grudges, stubbornness, being incredibly creative, and having a highly competitive spirit.

After considering this 50% observation, 50% genetics theory, I’ve concluded the following about my future kids:

1. My kids would be pint-sized little hyper spazoids who struggle with impulse and volume control.

2. They will be know-it-alls and compete with each other for attention.

3. I will not have the energy or patience to keep up with them or their puns.

The above facts are almost enough for me to give up the whole ‘having kids’ idea for good. But then again, maybe the world needs a few more pint-sized pun pipsqueaks…

Spicing Things Up

2011-10-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

I am perpetually cold. I'm just a cold person. It's like my body's thermostat broke a long time ago and I've been suffering from it ever since. My fingers and toes act like cold-blooded creatures- taking on the temperature of their surroundings. I am always cold and always trying to find ways to warm up.

I think that part of my state of constant chilliness is genetic. As a child, I remember sitting on the couch with my family, looking up at Mom and seeing her with one hand covering her nose.

"What are you doing, Mom?"

"My nose is cold."
"Oh."

Mom's nose got chilly in the house, and now my nose (finger, ankle, toe, shin, kneecap) gets cold in the house- it's genetic.

The other part of my perpetual chilliness it the fact that I have something called Raynaud's Disease. Raynaud's Disease is a very common condition (mostly among women) and it basically means that your fingers and toes go numb and white whenever they think it's cold outside. When my fingers feel something cold, they go completely numb for about 15 minutes and turn a sickly whiteish color. Don't feel too sorry for me though. As the Mayo Clinic website says, Raynaud's is more of an nuisance than anything else. And what a nuisance it is.

Last winter, I bought lettuce at the store, brought it home, washed the lettuce in cold water and then began chopping it for salad. Because my fingers felt the cold water and overreacted by shutting down all circulation, my digits went numb. Since this happens a lot, I didn't think anything of it.
I mean to say, I didn't thinking anything of it until I felt the knife blade hit my finger.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even bleed. I looked at my finger to see that I had sliced a considerable chunk from it while chopping my salad and because of the Raynaud nuisance, I didn't feel a thing, until the circulation kicked back in which allowed me plenty of time to scream and gather a pile of Band-aids for when it started bleeding.

So, my being cold is half genetic and half medical nuisance. I'm telling you this because a few nights ago, the temperature here dropped and I sat in the restaurant area of my cousin's establishment like a little frozen popsicle. My feet's circulation had shut off and I let out a whimper as I shivered.

Seeing my distress, my cousin Gretchen said, "You know, my dad always said that sprinkling cayenne pepper on your socks will warm up your feet."

"Really?" I stood up and went to the kitchen and unabashedly spooned the red powdery cayenne onto my socks, put my shoes back on, and re-entered the restaurant area.

"Is it working?" Gretchen asked.

I thought about it. I didn't really feel anything yet- maybe a slight tingling, maybe. "Not yet," I said.

Minutes passed.

Gretchen looked up from her book, "How are your feet?"

I tried to concentrate and think about my feet. "Nope, nothing yet."

Disappointed that they cayenne wasn't working well, I took my shoes off and tapped my socks in an attempt to fluff the spice around. My feet smelled like a spice cupboard. I was really hoping that my feet would instantly warm-up and that I'd maybe found a remedy for my chronic nuisance. With each minute that passed, my frustration with the spicy socks grew. I tried to imagine that it was working in hopes that the power of suggestion would help. Even with my imaginings, nothing worked, my little toes remained frozen.

After about an hour of waiting for my feet to warm up, I shrugged and concluded that the whole 'cayenne on your socks' thing was a bunch of poppycock- a spice scam.

I voiced my thoughts and it wasn't long after I'd abandoned the experiment that Gretchen said that she wanted to give it a try. She walked out of the restaurant, through the swinging kitchen door, and disappeared for a few seconds. Emerging from the kitchen with the spice jar in her hand, she walked towards me with a look of amusement on her face.

"Viv! That wasn't cayenne you sprinkled on your socks..that was paprika."

Accident Prone

2011-10-18T10:17:00.000-07:00

The day after I arrived in Ger, I played with a kitten and hurt my back.
The next day, I slammed my thumb in the door.
Two days later, I accidentally fell off of the sidewalk.
About three days after that, I walked through the dining room, started singing along to music that was playing, stumbled over a step going into the bathroom and almost knocked my teeth out on a doorknob.

But yesterday I took things to a whole new level.

Gretchen, Dan, Alasdair, Elodie, and I piled into the car to go to the grocery store in Flers. After a 20 minute drive, we pulled into the parking garage and we started getting out of the car.
It was then that I somehow tripped myself getting out, slammed my leg into Alasdair's booster seat, and fell out of the car. I put my hand out to catch myself on the car door, but that caused the door to swing open with incredible force and collide with the neighboring car- resulting in a stranger's dinged car and bruise on my thigh. After turning around to see what all the loud noise and commotion was about, Gretchen gave me a look of like 'WHO ARE YOU!?!?'. I sulked into the grocery store and tried not to fall flat on my face.

I've never been described as 'graceful' but this incident yesterday was freaky-bad, like I've been taking some nasty drugs or drinking myself silly. These past few weeks have been like a scene from The Three Stooges. Since it's just me being a spaz, however, I guess it's 'The One Stooge'.

Being scientifically minded, I tried to find a common thread among all the incidents that have resulted in injury or near-injury. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find any common denominator except, well, me.

Someone do me a favor and cover me in bubble wrap. I need it.

Home Away from Home

2011-10-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

I don't have much new artistic news to share these days as I have been very busy helping Gretchen and Dan in the restaurant. Between watching the kids, washing dishes, folding some laundry, and eating delicious food, there isn't much time to put paint on canvas... but I am enjoying every minute here with my American cousin and her family. The best part about being with family is that you share a common history, a common blood, a common ancestry that you can't find anywhere else. There's no awkward introductions, no explanations necessary- just you being you and them being them. I love that.

Gretchen and Dan have been very gracious in letting me invade their home for the month. I've been trying to not get in their way so that I don't wear out my welcome. Of course, my efforts to stay out of their way are in vain as I find myself walking into the kitchen and sticking my face in whatever Gretchen is cooking and saying "OOOOH! What's that!? I want some!!! I'll eat it! Oh goodie!" After bothering Gretchen, I walk out to the bar where Dan is and I say "Hey man, what's happening!? Can you make me a Roy Rogers?!"

So, basically, I'm a mooch and I drink beverages designed for 8 year olds, but whatever... I'm down with it. I do help when I can and I find myself trying to keep the one year old Elodie busy. She reminds me a lot of myself- moody, easily distracted, and always eating but I guess she can't help it, it's genetic.

Speaking of genetic, although Gretchen and I haven't seen each other in 20 years, we have found that we share a lot of things in common- they are as follows:

We both:

-have one parent that is related to the other person's parent

- like to purchase a scratch ticket every now and then

- have excellent taste in clothing

-were jealous of each other's toys when we were little.

-appreciate a good pun

-laugh when we are tired

-burst into spontaneous dance for no apparent reason

-enjoy doing crafts if the product is easy yet impressive and completed in a half hour.

-like antiques and all things vintage

-look great in hats

Aside from sharing common interests and laughing at stuff, I find that Gretchen's company is just what I need at this point in my trip... I was feeling a little homesick but having a cousin to visit makes me feel like, in a way, I am home.

Here are some photos from the past few weeks:

Double Rainbow in Montcabrier

Who could resist?

Sorbet and Espresso in the shadow of Abbey St. Martin in Moissac

V is for Vivster

Cloister Archade at the Abbey

Sunday morning at the Cloister.

On the train, headed to Paris.

There's a hot air balloon in the distance.

Before painting Gretchen and Dan's bathroom.

After!

Hi, Alasdair.

Good night, Alasdair.

Elodie being charming.

A Taste of Soup

2011-10-08T12:14:00.000-07:00

You know, I was thinking: People name their children after herbs and spices like Basil and Rosemary and Ginger, so why doesn't anyone name their kid 'Bay Leaf'?
I'll tell you why.
Because no one appreciates the bay leaf, that's why.
Who here can really tell us what good a bay leaf does? Yes, we are told that it is an important ingredient in soups and stews, but how many of us can say why? I'm not sure about you, but I have never tasted a culinary dish and said "Ooooh, I love the bay leaf in this." Have you?

I dare you to tell me what a bay leaf tastes like. Go ahead, describe it. You can't. You can't describe it, can you?
I thought so.

Well, I was just like you once. I used to only put a bay leaf in my cooking because a recipe told me to. I just put it in there and the took it out before I served my soup or stew or whatever else you put a whole bay leaf in. In the back of my mind, I knew that ingesting a whole bay leaf would be bad for me, but I never really bothered wondering why... and never EVER did I wonder 'hmmmm, why am I putting this in here in the first place?"

I used to think that the bay leaf was like tossing salt over your shoulder when you knock the salt-shaker over.... you just do it as some sort of ritualistic, superstitious gesture and I never bothered thinking more about it.

I never bothered asking 'why' until this week.

My cousin, Gretchen, is a fabulous cook here in Ger. She and her husband run their own restaurant in this small Normandy town. Gretchen makes fabulous dishes every single day and continues to wow us, and the restaurant patrons with her culinary prowess. A couple of days ago, Gretchen was talking about a soup that she had simmering on the stove and made an off-hand comment about using a bay leaf.

Mentioning the herb opened the proverbial can of worms. We started questioning why it is such an important ingredient if none of us can identify the taste. We discussed that everyone has a bay leaf in their spice cupboard, but we only use it when we are told- and we hardly ever question the recipe. We scoffed at the bay leaf- we poked fun at it, we were like bullies at the playground giving a kid a wedgie just because he looked different than we did.

Gretchen and I decided to get to know the bay leaf a little more intimately. We wanted to know what a straight-up dose of bay leaf tasted like so that we could identify the flavor. But how do you taste it without eating it- and we all know that you're not supposed to pop a bay leaf in your mouth like a Dorito and crunch it up...you just don't do that sort of thing.

So, Gretchen did the next best thing- she made bay leaf tea- a hot cup of water with several large bay leaves steeping inside. We let our brew steep for quite some time before grabbing the mug.

First came the sniff-test.
It smelled herby- a nondescript herb smell that none of us could identify.

Then came the taste test.
I tasted it first. I sipped in a small amount of bay leaf tea and the flavor was like......soup.

Bay leaves taste like soup, like chicken soup, like minestrone soup, like chowder and stew and all sorts of delicious hot liquidy meals.

Actually, let me backtrack a step. Bay leaves don't taste like soup, soups taste soup-ey BECAUSE they have bay leaves in it.
Seriously.
Without the bay leaf, a vegetable soup would just be a pot of watery potatoes and carrots, but WITH the bay leaf, that watery mess of garden veggies becomes SOUP.

Are you listening to this? Are you getting what I am saying?! This is important, people. The bay leaf is important! How dare we underestimate its power. Little did we know that the very thing we poked fun at has serious potential. Little did we know that our bullying of the bay leaf was like bullying a young Bill Gates- we regretted it once we found out that it has power.

If you doubt me, go ahead, make yourself some bay leaf tea and see for yourself. I bet you'll take a sip and think 'hmmm...this is kind of like soup...without chunks."

I keep a running list of potential baby names for when I decide to have children of my own. I have old fashioned names, I have funky names, and I have traditional family names - one name I do not have on my list is Bay Leaf, but after this week's mind-blowing experience, I'm seriously thinking about adding it.

Barbara

2011-10-05T11:57:00.000-07:00

Five days ago, I met a woman that changed my life.

She arrived by train in the afternoon. It was hot and the air in the hostel was thick with steam from the pot of pasta boiling on the stove. I had my back turned to the door when the woman arrived and I turned around to find her wearing clothes too large for her skinny frame and a loose scarf concealing her bald head.

Barbara.

After a quick introduction of shaking hands and saying 'bonjour' she excused herself from the hostel kitchen like she was in a hurry and disappeared for a couple of hours.

It wasn't until later in the evening that I saw her again. She smiled and as she sat down to join me at my picnic table, she reached up to make sure her head scarf was tucked in.

It was like we'd been friends for years. We chatted about art and laughed at my terrible French skills. She asked me about my artwork and my trip and my plans. I filled her in with the details of my trip, where I've been and where I am headed next.

Then I asked her about her story.

Barbara has cancer.

She undergoes chemotherapy three weeks a month.

And she spends the last week every month walking sections of the Way of Saint James- 500 miles to Santiago.

She doesn't know how long she has left to live, so she chooses to do the things she loves while she can still do them.

She told me her story and, when she was finished, I sat speechless for a few seconds. It was obvious that I was sitting across the table from an incredible human being- a woman of strength and courage. I stared at Barbara for a few more seconds, fighting the urge to cry.

This woman was beautiful, shining from the inside-out. Forget the fact that she didn't have any hair, she had to draw on her eyebrows, and was obviously very thin- Barbara's courageous spirit and inspirational attitude made her one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. She shone with a radiance that cancer can't beat- a happy spirit that cannot be oppressed by sickness.

If I was dying with cancer and horribly ill three weeks a month, I don't think I'd have the motivation to hike ten miles a day; I don't think I'd have the motivation to change out of my pajamas. Barbara's attitude reminded me that happiness is a choice, not just something that we might stumble upon if we are lucky, or rich enough or pretty enough or successful enough. It is very clear that Barbara chooses every day to be happy and find good things to look forward to.

After hearing Barbara talk about her struggle with illness, her sleepless nights, her grueling bouts of treatment, and her adventures in between, I realized that I'd found a true, real live hero. No, she doesn't play for a major sports team, she doesn't sing at the Grammy's, and she's never published a New York Times Bestseller- but she is a real hero- battling in a fierce competition with cancer, singing her own song along the way, and telling her story of facing life's biggest challenges with strength and determination.

This woman changed me, and for that I am truly grateful.
Thank you, Barbara, wherever you are.

Ger. Ger. Ger.

2011-10-03T11:51:00.000-07:00

Apparently there are like, 15 towns with the named 'Ger' here in France because all of my friends keep saying, "Are you in the southwestern part of France?" or "Are you southeast?" or "North by northwest?" Well, it turns out that I am in the northern one- but which norther one, well....that's still to be determined. =)

My fabulous cousin Gretchen and her family picked me up at the train station last night at 10pm and drove me to their home. Gretchen and her English husband Dan own a restaurant/bar and live above it in the living quarters. Gretchen and Dan have two beautiful children, a son that is four years old and a fifteen month old daughter- who is just starting to walk and loves to carry a bucket around like a purse.

It looks like my month here will be a balance of getting some art finished and also helping out around the place. After spending this last month getting spoiled by Sally, I am ready to maybe fold some laundry or make a bed- whatever it is, I want to do some work! Gah! I never thought I'd say it, but I am ready to toil! I'm at the point of this trip where I really want to help others, contribute, and serve. I've been a one-way valve long enough; I'm anxious be an outlet now.

My day today was spent getting acquainted with everyone and getting settled in. Tomorrow, Gretchen and I head to the hardware store to buy some paintbrushes so I can start painting their bathroom (not a mural, just white).

I am more than happy to report to you all that I did not have one single mishap with my luggage yesterday- no bleeding ankles, no embarrassing moments, nothing. Everything went strangely smooth- I kept waiting for the handle to pop off my bags, or my backpack to split open or my water bottle to try to commit suicide... but...nothing happened. This alone is something to celebrate. Me? Travel like a normal tourist? It happened, finally.

I have tons more to say and will write more in the morning.
Thanks to everyone for their prayers, support, and love!

Moissac: Filled with Dangerous Old Fogies

2011-09-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

In the past two days, I have seen a dog get his paw run over by his master in a motorized wheel chair AND an old man drive his car into a tree. Obviously, there's one thing we can take away from this, it's that Moissac senior citizens need to watch where they're going!

Beware!

I've been in Moissac for two and a half days now. So far, I've been to the abbey three times and I plan on returning there again tomorrow to tour the cloister. If you're anything like me, you're wondering, 'What the heck is a cloister?" Well, contrary to what you might imagine, a cloisters are not those things that get removed when you have a colonoscopy, neither are they the clumps of grains found in Honey Bunches of Oats. Cloisters are, well, um...they're basically like a courtyard with a covered walkway surrounding it. This cloister is especially cool because it is lined with amazingly detailed columns and beautiful arches (or a series of arches called an 'archade'). Nope, there won't be any Pac-Man at this arcade, just columns and carved capitals depicting various scenes from the Bible- which, in my mind, is pretty much as fun as pinball (and less expensive).

Columns lining the abbey cloister...forming arches that make an archade...make sense?

As I mentioned in the last blog, I am staying at a hostel here in Moissac. Most of the hostel guests are walkers en route to Santiago for the annual religious pilgrimage, navigating their way along 'The Way of Saint James'-. What started as a Catholic tradition is now a walk completed by people of all faiths (or non-faiths). The Way of Saint James starts in France and ends in Santiago, Spain and is 730+ kilometers (about 450 miles). Imagine walking from Spokane to Boise.... it's like that.

I've met several very nice people in my past two days, in particular, a woman from Holland (Gerda- sounds like 'Heerrrrrda', it helps if you hock a little bit of a loogie while you're saying it... that's what I do). We (Gerda and I) shared a nice little chat session at a cafe near the abbey. Gerda confessed that she loved ice cream and I told her about my love for sorbet, so we sat and ate dessert for about a half hour and then we were on our way back to the hostel. If there's one thing I really enjoy about about being on this trip, it's the people. I mean, art is cool and all, but the people make it so much more valuable.

Well, that's about it here. My sketches have been a little lack-luster, but I'm okay with that. There's plenty to see and plenty to draw and plenty to do, so I am happy (even if I am not pumping out a masterpiece every day).

I Don't Speak Japanese

2011-09-28T11:39:00.000-07:00

Hello from Moissac, France- where white grapes are plentifuland architecture is muy bien (wrong language, but whatev.)

My train ride from Montcabrier was very uneventful- leavingSally and having to say goodbye was sad, of course, but I comforted myself thinkingthat I’d come back and visit her someday. Ah, yes, promises to return areusually not fulfilled, but this was more like a ‘suggestion’ rather than a‘promise’.

Oh, yeah- I almost forgot, my train ride was ALMOST veryuneventful except for my giant art suitcase almost crippling me with afull-frontal attack to my ankle. I was just minding my own business, trying toboard a train in Agen, when I picked up my bag and it caught on something andcame right back and tried to kill me. It left a giant*, HUGE, ENORMOUS scrapethat needed emergency medical assistance. (see footnote...no pun intended).

I arrived here early this afternoon and spent the majorityof my day just getting to know Moissac. I walked to the famous abbey in town.The abbey is old- pretty much as old as the hills. The sculptures included inthe Romanesque cloister and entry way date back to 1100- we’re talking about1000 year old sculptures here… you sure can’t find these back home! I got a glimpse at the entryway that has ascene from St. John’s vision of The Final Judgment: beautiful, kind offrightening, and really old. Inside theabbey were beautiful arches, stained glass windows, sculptures. My favoritesculpture was made of wood- a life-size carving of two men lowering Jesus intoa box after he’d been taken off of the cross. The solemnity and thecraftsmanship combine to make something unique, touching, and memorable.

Tonight, I sat to eat my soy yogurt with a group of sixother people when the hostel owners asked me if I would like the extra bowl ofsoup and extra pork chop they had left-over. I looked at my soy yogurt, lookedat the soup and decided that maybe I’ll have my bland yogurt for dinnertomorrow. There was a Japanese woman atthe table, so I tried to wow her with my Japanese skills (I know two words) - Iused them out of context and she smiled- what a polite lady. After impressingher with my skills, I showed her some examples of my artwork and she likedthem- what a polite lady. I showed her artwork, she showed me pictures of herdelicious Japanese food she eats back home, and we ate our soup together; we’refriends now.

I hope to get some sketches of the abbey done tomorrow. Imight also go to a local café and get an espresso or even buy a souvenir toremember my time in Moissac. I know one thing for sure, I’m going to polish-upon my Japanese.

*stop listening because Vivian is exaggerating and blowing things way out of proportion.

Sad face from saying goodbye to Sally

suitcase, purse, Juanita, and a roll of canvas.

Juanita in her sleeping bag.

Part of the abbey entrance.

Inside the abbey.

My favorite sculpture so far.

Votives.

Transition Time

2011-09-27T04:32:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since my last post... a good four days or so, I think this might be the longest stretch that I've been silent on this end. To be perfectly honest, I kind of got sick of hearing my own 'voice' on here and went on a blog diet for a few days.
But now, oooooh now, I do have some things to report on.

First of all, I leave Montcabrier tomorrow. I seriously cannot believe that it's almost been a month since I arrived- time slipped through my fingers. Something about the weather, the food, the atmosphere here makes it seem like you're in a time warp. I didn't get nearly as much accomplished as I had planned but I am still pleasantly surprised with what DID get done; I am excited at the progress that has been made here.

If you've been following me on Facebook, you will have noticed that I switched mediums for a while. Along with painting, sketching, and my black and white drawings, I added collage to my collection of artwork. After painting for three months straight, I needed to switch things up for a few days. Collage has added a new dimension to my artwork- causing me to analyze colors and textures in a new way that will also help me with my paintings. Collages allow me to create images that I just wouldn't be able to with paint and canvas, and sometimes there's messages, feelings, and ideas I want to express that can only be communicated using collage. So, this allows me to interact with a larger audience AND I don't feel so burned out.

One of the collages made this month.

With that said, my painting style is evolving as well. I have returned to my style of painting using simplified shapes and lots of contrast. This style isn't as popular as the more drawn-out landscapes, but, I am not aiming to please an audience. I paint for myself and God and if people like it- great! If not, well... I guess I can add another painting to my wall back home. =)

Simplified shapes and contrast: my favorite.

So that's that in the art world. Thanks to all my favorite people for putting up with my constant barrage of paintings on Facebook and postings about art. =)

In other news:
A man in the village, completely drunk, barged into my apartment yesterday. He knocked twice and then let himself in- I stopped him and turned him around. He followed me into the courtyard when I tried to lead him away from the house (and me). Then he pulled a picture out of his pocket- a picture of himself hiking in the woods- he pointed to the picture and said, 'Souvenier' and gave it to me.
After he handed me the picture of himself, he pulled a small piece of paper out with a phone number on it and pointed to the number and then pointed to himself and then pointed at me (number, him, me). It didn't take a genius to figure out that he wanted me to call him sometime. Well, since I am leaving and all and since he barged into my apartment, and since he's about 60 years old AND since he seems to have a habit of being completely wasted at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I declined his offer of his phone number with a, "Sorry, I can't."
I felt bad for having to turn him down as he obviously had grandiose plans for the two of us, but... a girl's gotta draw the line, right?

-I went to a Zumba class yesterday with Sally (the residency director). It was completely in French, but it wasn't hard to follow the moves: monkey see, monkey do. It was a good workout and that's a good thing since this whole baguette and sorbet diet I've been on has added to overall size of my, um... derriere. I tried on one of the dresses I brought from home and had a hard time getting it over my, um....derriere. It was right then and there that I decided it was time to get back into shape- right after I finished my lemon sorbet & compote dessert, of course.
The problem with being in Europe is that you don't want to be such a dietary stinge that you don't have any fun or enjoy the local cuisine. But then again, a person might go a little overboard with welcoming the cultural dishes and end up being a guest on the next season of 'Biggest Loser'.

-A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a pottery shop and heard some fabulous music playing in the background, I fell head-over-heels in love with it and asked the sales gal who the singer was. She told me and I immediately purchased her album. The lady's name is Melody Gardot- a little jazz a little..'jena se qua'.
I'm a fan. Maybe you will be too. If not, well, ok.

I bought this cool bowl at the pottery shop.

- Two nights ago, I had dinner with Sally and one of her friends (Joselyn). First of all, I would like to say that Joeslyn is pretty much the funnest, coolest, greatest person ever. She and I were instant friends. She is 66 years old and works in the porcelaine factory in Puy l'Eveque. Joselyn studied opera for years and, after a few glasses of wine, she sang a few songs for us.

Then, she asked us to sing something. My contribution to the evening was singing "Guess I'll Go Eat Worms" from Wee Sing Silly Songs- it ain't opera, folks...but it'll do in a pinch.

Well, that's about it. I am headed to a store today to buy some jeans- my khaki capris just aren't cutting it anymore and the rest of my clothes are, as Sally would say, 'tatty' (meaning- ugly, worn out).

-Let's see....my plans for the next month look something like this:
September 28-October 2: stay in Moissac and paint scenes around the church there.
October 2-29: Stay with my generous cousin and her family in northern France. I hope to help out and earn my keep there.... no mooching allowed.
October 30: Paris (I haven't been IN the city yet, just the airport).

Thanks for tagging along on this little adventure of mine!

Slow Food and Snail Mail

2011-09-23T01:19:00.000-07:00

Fast food is convenient. Email is convenient. Drive-through espresso stands are convenient. Twitter is convenient. Facebook is convenient.

But...

Slow food is delicious. Hand written letters are special. Coffee in a small cafe is memorable. A note longer than 140 characters to a friend is thoughtful.

Fast food might fill you up but slow food is good for you. Email might offer plenty of opportunities to communicate with friends, family, and colleagues, but a letter with a stamp on it brightens a person's day. A caramel latte from your favorite drive-through might wake you up for work, but when was the last time you sat down to drink your coffee? Updating your friends with your latest photos and statuses is a great way to keep people informed, but have you taken time to see how someone else is doing?

In an age of 'quicker, faster, easier, and instant', I'm starting to see that filling our lives with these things is like filling our lives with fries and McNuggets...they fill us for a while but they have little 'nutritional' value. I believe these things that are created for our convenience cause us to be a little more self-absorbed. We don't take time to eat good food, we don't take time to sit and think, we don't even take time to make a phone call instead of sending a text message, and the majority of us don't take time to write a note to a friend and send it through the mail (no wonder our US Postal Service is going belly-up).

One thing I've learned this month is that good things take time and energy. I have had the luxury of being removed from a 'faster, quicker' world for a month and, although it was frustrating at first, it's felt so good to slow down and choose what I invest my time in. Food, conversation, relationships, commitments, personal projects, artwork, and friendships- they all take time and energy to create- but they're worth it.

I am making a proposal to all my blog readers, a challenge to those who are ready for it:
Write one letter to one person this week. Write a note in a card or scratch out a letter or on a piece of lined paper. You can use legal pad paper, computer paper, cardboard, whatever you have handy, just as long as it is a couple paragraphs and written by hand (don't worry about your handwriting or spelling errors). Giving someone a hand written letter versus sending a short email is like the difference between pot roast with potatoes and a Hungryman TV Dinner.

Good things take time and energy. Can you put a little time and energy into sending a note to a friend or family member? Let's take a second or two out of our busy schedules and write something that a person can open with their hands and physically hold and read- something tangible-something that can be stored in a drawer or a file or a pocket, to be read over and over again..

A letter, written in your own handwriting, signed with your own signature, absent of emoticons and 'LOLs' will only take about 7 minutes to write (at the most). You can either hand deliver your letter or send it through the mail- with a stamp on the envelope. You can send your mom a letter, your dad a note, or your sibling a 'hello'. You could write to your friend from college, your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, daughter, son, cousin, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, friend from elementary school, an old colleague, and so on. The person you decide to write to is your choice, but I guarantee the recipient's response will be the same, they will appreciate the time and energy you put into something- more time and energy than it takes to click 'send' on an email, click 'update' on your Facebook, pay for your drive-through mocha, pick up a value meal from the second window, or get a Hungryman from the freezer to the microwave to the TV tray.

*Personal note: It started with sending postcards from Sweden, Iceland, and France, now letter writing is becoming one of my favorite ways to stay in contact. I have found that a simple gesture like a letter or note means a lot to people- and I am sure you'll find it the same with whoever you write to. Happy Friday!

The Results Are In

2011-09-20T02:23:00.000-07:00

Three days ago, I asked my fellow Facebook friends and family to vote for their favorite French painting so far. Thirty-three people voted. It was great to read all the comments and responses. I want to thank everyone for their input and their feedback, it is so encouraging to see everyone commenting on the artwork! Here are the voting results:

These three paintings tied for 5th Place:

4th Place:

3rd Place:

2nd Place:

1st Place:

The 1st place painting needs a name.

That's my next project. =)

Interview with a MOMpire.

2011-09-16T10:03:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to another edition of Vivogue Magazine. This month's edition of Vivogue was delayed as all of our employees have been busy working on other projects, some have been on vacation and others just didn't shown up for work. Because of this delay, I had a chance to think a little longer about what this article should be about. As Editor in Chief, owner, designer, and author of Vivogue, I pretty much get to call the shots- so I summoned myself to a meeting and tossed out some new groundbreaking ideas that might just grab the attention of some of my most skeptical readers out there. After a heated conversation, I decided that maybe it was time to feature an interview with someone other than myself. It takes a humble person to step aside and let someone else take the spotlight...um...incase you didn't get that, I am calling myself humble...now, where's my Humility of the Month award?!?

I scoured high and low for a worthy subject to be featured in Vivogue and, after much deliberation, I decided to interview my own mother. I mean, she DOES deserve a little recognition for bringing me into this world- without her, one might even say that you wouldn't have the privledge of reading Vivogue Magazine! Mom: a worthy subject indeed.

So, I tracked down one of my mindless minions, who was just sitting at her desk checking her email and writing nonsensical updates on Facebook, and told her to go interview my Mom. After a good 12 hours, she returned with this:

Vivogue Rep: Well, I drove for what seemed like days until I got to some part of rural eastern Washington- I pulled up what I thought was a driveway and found a red house guarded by a pair of lick-happy dogs: a Black Lab and a Sheltie. I got out of the car and knocked on the door of the house. I was greeted by a gray haired gentleman dressed head to toe in grease stained camoflauge military fatigues.
"Lacie will be down in a second," the man said. He must have noticed the ovbious look of disgust on my face because he looked down at his dirty clothes and apologized "I just got done putting new hydrolic fluid in the backhoe."
Like that means anything to me.
I said "Oh, ok" and made a mental note never, EVER to change hydrolic fluid in anything ending in the word 'hoe'.

A few seconds later I heard the 'click, clack' sound of high heels descending a staircase. A woman dressed in a navy blue linen suit came into view and stepped towards me.
"Hello, I'm Vivian's mother." She extended her hand and I couldn't help but notice the turquoise blue bangle bracelets on her wrist.
This woman's got style...she must get it from her daughter.

I introducted myself as a Vivogue Representative and showed her my badge- a large cardboard cutout of Vivian's profile, dusted in gold glitter.

Vivian's mom led me out onto a deck that overlooked a field and some medium-sized mountains in the distance. After sitting and chatting for a few minutes, we started the interview.

Vivogue Rep: So, Lacie, how have you been doing without Vivian around?
Vivian's Mom: ((uncontrolable tears, sobbing, and wailing)).

Vivogue Rep: Ok. Next question. What is it like being Vivian's mother?

Vivian's Mom: It rocks! Vivian is the sparkplug of this family.

Vivogue Rep: I'm sorry, did you say 'stinkbug'?
VM: No, hun.

VR: How would you describe your role in the Abell family?

VM: Our powers are divided; I am the legislative/judicial branch.

VR: I actually have it on good account that you are judge, jury, and most often executioner. Do you care to comment?

VM: Don't push it.

VR: What is the best part about having Viv out of the country?
VM: I get to hear about her adventures from afar, and believe it or not, I probably talk to her more often.

VR: I bet it's nice to not have her eating all your food either... I mean, she can be kind of piggish at times, can't she.

VM: Yes, but pigs are smart.

VR: What does that mean?
VM: If you were a pig, you'd know.

VR: Ok. Whatever. Speaking of food, if you could eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be and why?
VM: Probably poached salmon with pesto, white beans, and salad. Followed by some terrific dessert.

VR: ((mumbles something)).

VM: Speak up and sit up straight- and let's have a little more eye-contact, shall we?

VR: Yes, Mom... I mean, Viv's Mom.

VM: That's better.

VR:What's your favorite painting or artwork that Vivian has ever done?
VM: No fair. I can't answer that; it is like which kid do I love the most.

VR: You love Vivian the most, right?

VM: ((Rolls eyes))

VR: What's your biggest pet peeve?

VM: I don't like being tapped on the shoulder. And the word "congradulations" makes me cringe.

VR:We hear you're turning 60 this year. If you could sum up your past 60 years in three words, what would they be?
VM: God Is Good

VR: Well, I can't make a joke about that one. Next. What is a favorite memory you have of just you and Viv?
VM: Floating in Twin Lakes one hot summer day, on our noodles, singing "Ode To Billie Joe" at the top of our collective lungs, and LAUGHING!

VR: Hmmm. Never heard of it. I'll have to check that one out. Describe your hopes for Viv as she travels.
VM: I hope she brings back new, larger parameters for her life and that she discovers that people are people, everywhere.

VR: I bet she'll bring back new, larger stretch pants.... Um... If you could pass piece of wisdom on to our readers, what would it be?

VM. Floss.

VR: Floss? That's it??

VM: Dental hygiene is very important. Do you floss?

VR: That's none of your beeswax.

VR: Samoas or Thin Mints?

VM: Ick. I don't like Girl Scout Cookies.

VR: Well, I guess that leaves more for me- that is if Vivian doesn't eat them all first...

VR: Last Question. What is your favorite thing about Vivogue Magazine?

VM: I love Vivogue, because there are never smelly inserts in the magazine, and I don't get subscription reminders.

VR: Well, it's been a pleasure. I love your outfit. Now, how do I get back to the freeway?
VM: Go out, down the road, turn left, another left, another right, two more lefts and then go straight for about three hours.

VR: Can you draw me a map?

VM: No, but my husband will...right after he's done changing the oil in the CAT.

VR: Cats have oil?

VM: Yes, dear. More coffee?

Well, that sums it up. A great pair of parents for sure. I'm definitely going to come back and interview Viv's dad next time- he seems like an interesting guy. Now, I'm off to go see if I can find a copy of "Ode to Billy Joe" somewhere.

Busy.

2011-09-14T06:10:00.000-07:00

There are a couple of topics that have been running through my mind lately- one of them is how busy Americans are- including myself. Here's a little note about busyness, it is in no way intended to sound preachy, but is intended to challenge you and me. 'Busy' doesn't necessarily mean 'productive' and it hardly ever means 'fulfilled'.

Imagine:

A frail man lies in bed with his family around him. Gathering as much strength as he has left, the old man lifts his hand to summon everyone closer- he slightly lifts his head and opens his eyes to see all of his loved ones near. He takes a shallow breath and forms one last sentence:
“I wish I would have spent more time working at the office.”

And then he dies.

If you’re having a hard time getting this to play out in your mind, that’s probably because things like this don’t happen. Men and women don’t ever reflect on their life and say that they wish they would have worked more- worked later, harder, more frantically, no one every says “Gee, I guess I could have used a little more stress in my life.” It just doesn’t happen. Instead, what happens is that people work their fingers to the bone, sacrifice their relationships, their health, and their sanity only to regret it later.

Have you ever heard a mother complain about her kids’ hectic schedule? “Joey has soccer, Anna has ballet, and Madison has piano…I just don’t think we’re going to get home before 9 o’clock.”

Have you ever heard someone brag about how many miles they put on their car? “Dude, I put 2000 miles on my car last week” it’s like they’re looking for the ‘I Drove the Wheels off My Car Because I Am So Busy’ Prize.

What about the guy that brags about how many hours of work he put in? “I worked 60 hours this week and then went home on the weekend to help remodel my friend’s house- I haven’t slept in two and a half days.”

Have you ever heard a college student say “I just read fourteen chapters of biochem. and now I am off to study group…right after I finish typing this twelve page paper.”

If you answered yes to any of these, or maybe you’re finding that you are the one saying them, you’re not alone- Americans are busy- too busy. Why are we doing this to ourselves? Is someone forcing you to be so frazzled or are you filling your schedule with things that only add to your stress? Is it worth it?

I recently got into a conversation with a friend back home who was trying to decide whether to drive across the state of Washington right after work ended at 5pm or to wait and drive back the next day. I encouraged him to spend the night and make the 8 hour drive that next morning. He seemed to have a hard time with the idea- like NOT being in a rush made him uncomfortable. Somewhere along the line, this friend of mine has been convinced that being busy is noble and that taking time for himself is ‘lazy’.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard:
“You gotta work hard if you want to get ahead in this world, Son.” This bit of advice is usually passed down from generation to generation and, to some extent, I totally agree. Yes, it does take hard work to get ahead- but that’s not the only requirement for success. Notice that the statement is “You gotta work hard…” not “You gotta be really, really busy…”

The old man in the scenario written at the top didn’t say “I wish I would have spent more time working at the office” because when a person has a chance to reflect on what life is all about, he or she will find that life is about the relationships that are made- not a paycheck or a promotion.

Emotional Leftovers

2011-09-11T02:27:00.000-07:00

Last night, I stumbled across some news that stopped me in my tracks. I was doing my evening cruise through Facebook to catch up on the latest from back home when I noticed a little heart shaped indicator on my screen annoucning that my ex husband is now engaged to be married. I tried to act like it didn't bother me, but I admit that it did. My stomach dropped. The feelings I had were unidentifyable- it wasn't jealousy, it wasn't anger or bitterness but more like a slight mixture of sadness and confusion. Just when I think that the last part of me stopped hurting and stopped caring, I find residual emotions that reveal themeselves over time- last night was one of those instances.

Finding these tender spots inside is kind of like picking up glass off the floor after you've dropped a mug: you pick up the large pieces first, and then you sweep with the hand-broom. Even after those two steps, a person still finds little shards here and there- under the toe space, next to the door. A person never gets it all at once, and somtimes even hours, or days afterwards, you might find one or two little pieces glinting in the light.

I found a little glinting piece of tenderness last night.

I layed in bed for what seemed like forever, just staring at the celing, thinking and wrestling with conflicting emotions,. With the seconds and minutes ticking steadily by, my brain tried to make sense of everything that has happened these past several years with Matt. Like any sort of complicated situation, however, it's not easy to wrap everything up in a nice little package and put it on a shelf along with the rest of life's biggest scenarios. Life is not simple though, it is not sterile- it is often complicated and messy.

This is one of those complicated and messy moments.

"You know... CHAMPAGNE!"

2011-09-09T13:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one for the record books. Sally, Tom (a fellow resident writer from South Africa), Juanita and I piled into Sally's little black Twingo and drove to see the 30,000 year old Pech-Merle cave paintings. Sally brought up the idea of going two days ago and I nearly jumped out of my skin from excitement. I originally learned about the prehistoric cave paintings my sophomore year of college and found them facinating. I remember Google searching the web to see if I could get posters of the paintings- their simplicity as well as their history combine to put these primitive works of art on my top 5 favorite artistic pieces.
This might all sound a little dry to you, but for an art history nerd like me, it was kind of a big deal- like a football fan going to the Super Bowl or a NASCAR fanatic going to the Indy 500.

I decided to bring Juanita along for the trip as she's been pretty bored just sitting in the room and waiting for me to come back in the afternoons from my painting expeditions. I told her she could go as long as there wasn't any monkey business. I was happy to pack her a banana or two for the road since it kept her quiet on our hour long car ride.

We arrived at Pech-Merle and went on the 50 minute tour, which was completely in French. It was a really good thing that Sally came to translate- I kept hearing 'buh-tum' whenever the tour guide took his laser pointer over a certain part of a drawing. I asked Sally what he was saying... turns out that the drawing he was pointing to was a shilouette of a woman- with a very large 'buh-tum'. One thing I noticed about the drawings of women was that the artists didn't seem to care to include heads on the ladies- they just drew very fertile looking women with lines for heads.... kind of makes me think that these primitive men didn't really value their women's brains too much. They definitely put of a lot of emphasis on the physical attributes vs. anything else. I won't be too judgemental of these artistic men, however, I mean, they did do some works of art that lasted a lot longer than any of my paintings will- and I am SURE a woman played a large part in the cleaning of his animal skin clothes when he returned from his cave expeditions- covered in iron oxide and charcoal.

After we got done with the tour, I asked if we could do it all over again. Sally said 'no' because it was well past lunch time and we were due to have a bite in St. Cirq Lapopie- noted the most beautiful village in France. St. Cirq Lapopie is famous as the gem of the Lot region of France and, in one tour guide, it was referred to as one of the most beautiful places not just in France, but in their entire world. Well over 800 years old, this town is built on a rock outcropping that looks over the gorgeous Lot river. It once had three castles in the village- just ruins are left now, but a lot of the other buildings in the town are almost a thousand years old... which makes our puny little stick homes back in Ferry County look like short-term investments. If you really want something to last, it's gotta be build out of limestone, have a roof of limestone, and be build on a foundation of limestone.
On our way to 'Lapopie, we passed a massive field of sunflowers. Tom and I begged Sally to pull over and let us take some photos. When I think 'France' I think 'sunflowers', and I admit I was disappointed to hear that they'd all bloomed by September and the locals told me that I probably would only see one or two individual flowers still yellow... but this patch proved the locals wrong. I joked that walking on the road above the sunflowers, with them 'looking' in my direction made me feel like a rockstar going on stage to face adoring fans.
"HELLO SUNFLOWERS! I LOVE YOU! Here's a new song I wrote, just for you..."

There's no real use in my trying to desribe the town of St. Cirq Lapopie to you, because I just won't do it justice. Let me just say this: if I could pack things up and move there, I'd do it without hesitation. There are just some places in the world that actually do take your breath away- St. CL is one of those places. You might want to Google it if you want some really good photos. I am just showing you one of the best ones I took.. and I will post more pictures later.

I had a little Cassis Sorbet in the village, just to celebrate my being there. The server gave me a metallic plastic spoon. It looked so real that I asked him if he wanted it back when I was finished with it. He looked at me like I was a weirdo and said 'No."

Another gentleman I met at the panini shop told me he used to be a bank manager in Champagne and then said "You know... CHAMPAGNE!" and then pantomimed popping a cork- he and I got along really well after that.

Juanita looks over the Lot River with St. Cirq Lapopie Church in the background.

Well, I have to go to bed. It's 10:19pm here. I have a full day of painting in Puy l'eveque tomorrow- I hope to do one good painting of the city. Wish me luck.

My First Day of School

2011-09-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

School started back in Curlew this week. Last night I had an anxiety dream that I was frantically preparing to teach a combination class of high school seniors and first graders. Even though I am not back home in the classroom, I can't help but feel the buzz of Back to School excitement.

In honor of all those students, parents, and teachers back home I thought I would share an exerpt from an essay I wrote a year ago about my first day of school at Inchelium. The essay was in response to the question "Why did you choose to be a teacher?" I wrote about my trouble fitting in at Inchelium and how I went on to discover that standing and teaching at the front of the class was the only place I truly felt like I belonged....anyway, it's directed towards an audience of officials in Olympia who were in charge of grading my professional portfolio, so I won't bore you with the whole essay, but here's the part about my first day of school and why it is burned into my memory:
______________________________________________

            A white girl born and raised on an Indian Reservation has very little chance of ever fitting in. Although not impossible, the odds of having a sense of belonging are rare. Basic outward appearances automatically create an obvious division among people that is extremely difficult ignore. In order to fit in, a girl must play her cards right. No, she must play them perfectly and a certain sort of luck must be involved as well. For instance, if a girl were born with dark, straight hair and deep-brown eyes, it would definitely help with the fitting-in process. If her natural behavior was similar to those around her, if she was to think and act and react like the rest, she might have an easier time being accepted by her classmates. Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking, if she were significantly gifted in the area of athletics, the people in her community might be willing to accept her for her ability to contribute to the local sports teams. With matching physical characteristics, similar mannerisms, and a supernatural athletic ability, a white girl just might possibly fit in. Unfortunately, for me, I struck-out in all three areas and have spent a large chunk of my life searching for a place where I truly belong.
            If I ever stood a chance at fitting in at Inchelium (the tiny reservation town where I grew up) I blew it- big time. My one chance to fit in was shot to pieces the minute I stepped foot on the bus- headed to school for the first time, my first day of kindergarten.
            Mom had spent extra time that morning combing my blonde hair and dividing it into pig tails. She talked gently to me as she finished my hair, tying each pigtail with a bright ribbon. She spent the rest of the morning trying to make sure that, in all my excitement for school, I had not forgotten to pack my box of Crayolas, my new PE shoes or my sack lunch. I’d heard so much about school from my older brother, Hunter, I anxiously awaited the time for him and me to go out the door and catch the bus. The time finally came. Mom walked us out the door, led us out onto the driveway, turned us to face the sun, and took a photo of Hunter and me- hand in hand, ready to start school.
            The bus’ diesel engine grew loud as it rounded the far corner of our dirt road. A cloud of dust trailed behind it and, as it approached, I felt scared and excited at the same time. As it arrived at our stop, the bus lurched to a halt, the air brakes let out a hiss, and the bus driver opened the doors for us to come aboard. Hunter let me get on first. I climbed the three giant steps and waltzed down the tiny aisle to find a seat- a big brown seat for my brother and me to sit in.
          The bus pulled away from our stop and rolled down the road, my azure-blue eyes grew wide as I began to look around. My world had instantly expanded. I couldn’t get enough of looking around at the interesting sights that surrounded me. There were so many sounds to listen to, my ears felt overwhelmed. My hands instantly wanted to touch everything- the windows, the rugged metal siding, the vinyl seats. I was awe-struck. I’d heard that school was great, but I had no idea that the ride to school would be this incredible. I know now, that it was at that exact point in time that I realized life was worth celebrating- and each moment in it, even the small ones, were worth celebrating too.

            I could hardly sit in my seat as we traveled from house to house, picking up more kids. I’d hardly noticed the rest of the students on the bus since I’d been preoccupied with the wonders of the ride. We had one more stop to make before making the trip down hill to the school parking lot. At this stop, a grumpy high school student stepped on the bus, shuffled to her seat, threw her bag down, and sat with an obvious frown on her face. Her body language communicated a very clear message that she was not at all pleased with the fact that school had started again.
            After making the remarkable discovery that the school bus offered innumerable wonders to be cherished, I could not figure out why this girl looked do displeased. Didn’t everyone else see the wonders I did? Didn’t this girl see life, full of new opportunities, was offering her an opportunity to look around and be amazed?
            It was at that moment that I, with eyes wide, looked at her, trying to interpret the expression on her face, hoping she would find enjoyment in the bus ride like I did. I gazed curiously and she returned the gaze. It took me a split-second to realize that the look she gave me was not friendly but rather one of bitterness and disgust. Her eyes narrowed and her lips let out a low growl as she spoke.
            “Stare hard, retard.”
            I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.

______________________________________________________

Side note: Most people in Inchelium are a lot friendlier than this girl ever was. Her cutting words, however, left a scar that has remained ever since- reminding me that the tongue is a dangerous weapon. This fact alone is one of the most important things I've learned. If we look at it that way, this girl played taught me my very first lesson on my first day of kindergarten, and for that I am grateful. Maybe I'll send her a postcard.

Joe Artist

2011-09-05T12:57:00.001-07:00

My computer absolutely refuses to upload any Joe Artist pictures this week. I am not sure why. Until I can figure it out, there will be no Joe Artist cartoons on this blog site. Sorry!

I am spending tomorrow painting in a near by village that has castle remains from the 12th century... I'm sure that I can find SOMETHING to paint there. =)

Gotta go to bed.

When to Walk Away

2011-09-04T01:13:00.000-07:00

After spending two full days in a sort of dream-like state, the time came for me to paint. Yesterday, I got out my easel, mixed my paints, put in my headphones, and started a small 8"x10" landscape. All went well for about 75% of the painting and then I ruined the entire painting with too much 'noodling'- just adding details, taking away details, getting nit-picky, etc. I ruined it or, as Sally said "you over-cooked it".

I usually have the sense to stop myself from getting too obsessive with my paintings- I usually reach a point where I put down my paintbrushes and say "I am happy with this one!" and walk away satisfied with the finished product. Yesterday, however, I just couldn't stop. There was so much to see, so much to put into the painting, so many details I wanted to include- so I crowded my painting and ended up with a muddy, confusing, quite hideous picture.

All artists struggle with knowing when to stop. Painters fight the temptation to add just one more flower, or one more leaf, or one more tile on the rooftop. Writers have to walk away from their stories and stop adding adjectives and juicy adverbs. Sculptors resist putting another finger print impression or dimple in their projects, and interior decorators have to stop scooting furturniture around. But WHEN to stop is the question.

Leonardo Da Vinci said "Art is never finished, only abandoned." My students back home have heard me preach this over and over again- and yet I still have trouble 'abandoning' at the right time. People often look at me funny when I say 'abandoned' like my paintings are somehow orphaned or uncared for. But the truth is, I think 'abandoned' means leaving a work of art to stand on its own strength- that a painting reaches a point where it can effectively represent what the artist is trying to communicate and adding unnecessary extras is like over-watering a plant: you think you're doing it a favor but your actions end up slowly killing it instead

I 'overwatered' my painting yesterday by adding details that didn't belong. Doing so, however, reminded me to practice a little artistic self-control. Today, my goal is to work until I can step back from my painting and say "it's ready to stand on its own". Then, I will put my brushes down, take my apron off, and go eat a croissant.

This is it.

2011-09-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

The sun shone through an arched doorway- spreading sunlight across the courtyard. I could hear pigeons making their pigeon-ey sounds behind me. And then the centuries-old church bells rang that 7pm had arrived on time- signaling that my first full day in a midevil village was drawing to a close.
Sally entered the graveled courtyard with plates, utensils, and wine glasses.
"I'm afraid that dinner will be about ten minutes late. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait?"

The moment will forever be cemented in my memory as the moment in which I was pretty sure I'd died and gone to Heaven.

As you can probably tell from my description above that I am basically the luckiest person alive. When I applied to stay at this residency, I had no idea that it would be so incredible. Yesterday, after a long day of travel, Sally- the residency director- and I pulled in to the drive of a home straight out of a travel magazine and when she said "This is the house", I instantly burst into tears of gratitude. All this? For me?

After unloading my bags, Sally showed me my beautiful room and then the studio- my reaction to seeing all this was stunned silence and a heart full of appreciation. I kept telling myself to get a grip as I fought back more tears- but when Sally led me to the terrace to sit and watch a brilliant display of lightning that flashed from cloud to cloud across the valley, I lost it.
"Mom would love this.... She'd have a cow!!" I said as I wiped tears away from my cheeks.

For the first time in the two months I've been away, I felt embarassed that I have it so good. In my head, I know that I worked hard to plan and pay for this adventure, but I had no clue that it would be like this- you can't plan this, you can't pay for it. It is like...like a bottle of the most brilliant blessings has been opened and poured over my head. All I can do is sit in a sort of daze and realize that this, THIS is it.

The only thing that could make this better is if my friends, my family, my blog readers, all my encouraging loved ones were right here with me to enjoy it too.
__________________________________________________________________

Before I post pictures, here's a summary of my travels yesterday:
3am: alarm went off
3:30am: I finally got out of bed
4:00- out of hostel and drug luggage down the bumpy Reykjavik streets
4:30- stood in rain until shuttle to airport arrived
5:20: arrived at airport
7:50: boarded plane to Paris
7:51: realized my seat reservation was in Business Select Class
7:51-8:00: repeated "leg room! leg room! leg room! leather seats! leather seats!" over and over again
8:00-1:30(Paris time): asleep-including drooling and twitching
1:35: chose to follow a large group of people getting off my plane.
1:36- realized that the large group of people had led me to baggage claim.
1:36:10- realized that since I was at baggage claim, it would mean that I would have to go out and around and back in to the airport and go through security and customs all over again.
1:37- hated life for a brief moment.
2:15: made it through security (again) and found my gate. Deliberately did NOT follow any crowd of people.
3:55- plane to Toulouse scheduled to leave
4:20- plane still hadn't left
4:35: plane took off- I silently panicked because our late departure would mean that I might miss my train to Cahors.
5:00: Chinese man next to me spilled orange juice all over his friend's lap.
5:50: touch down, baggage claim.
6:10: sprint to bus
6:38: Sprint to train
6:38-6:55: looked like an idiot trying to communicate in a language I do not speak or understand...attempted to tell the conductor that I needed to buy a ticket and didn't know what to do. All she said was "You're American, right?"
6:58-8:30- Train ride to Cahors- conversed with two friendly gals.
8:30-9:00: Car ride to residency
9:00: lightning show and Viv cried.
9:05: called Mom.
10:00 shower, photos with Juanita.
10:10: sound asleep.

I got up this morning to the sound of the 7am church bells. Sally brought coffee and breakfast to my little apartment, and I spent the rest of the day sketching and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that someone brought me coffee and breakfast. This is it.

Here are some pictures:

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 4am

I called him "Bongo and Baguette Dude"

I had just found out that I was in Business Select Class

When you fly 'Business Select' you can ask for two drinks... and they automatically give you two creams and sugars.
Chapter 3 begins
Tired after a long day of traveling.
My breakfast this morning.
Before.
During.
After.

My room.

The studio.

A few of my favorite supplies.

A view into the courtyard.

My first attempt at sketching here.

My second sketch for the day.

Lamb Face, Anyone?!

2011-08-31T14:00:00.000-07:00

I have arrived in Reykjavik- the trip into town was quite eventful.
Joe (my housemate) and I were leaving at the same time, so we rode the bus together. We met at the bus station and said farewell to a fellow resident (Peeter from Estonia).
The bus ride was smooth- our bus driver looked just like Chris Farley though- Chris Farley with a mustache... Joe and I got a good chuckle about that one.

Juanita entertained us for a few minutes and then I fell asleep.

Upon arrival to the Reykjavik bus station, Joe ordered half of a lamb head (traditionally eaten here in Iceland). He offered me some, but I decided that I didn't want to throw up in front of everyone, so I passed. Joe was happy to report that the eyeball tasted strangely sweet and the tongue like sausage. About that time, I pointed to what he was about to put in his mouth and said, "Don't eat that, that's the sinuses" and then we were done.

After the lamb experience, Joe and I schlepped our luggage to the hostel in town- a hostel for artists (cool, huh?). And then we went out on the town for some noodles and a souvenier or two.

Now I'm back in my room, frantically documenting my day, listening to Positive Life Radio from back home and getting ready to hit the hay- gotta get up bright and early tomorrow: 3:45am to be exact.

For those of you who were praying for me and my luggage, so far so good. I did, however, have to say 'goodbye' to my purple bag and narrow everything down to one piece of luggage. It was hard to do, but I couldn't afford the $150 charge to take a second bag to France- gotta draw the line somewhere.

This time tomorrow, I will be dog-tired and ready to cry- but hopefully safe in the harbor of my new residency. I'm looking forward to a new landscape and new inspiration.

Here are some pictures documenting the day.

My cool hostel door key.
Sneaky key-hole hiding spot.

Delicious noodles from a hole in the wall place in Rey.

Before.

After.

My personal choice for something 'yummy' to eat.

Juanita and I enjoy the bus ride.

She stole my camera for a self-portrait.

Joe and Juanita.

Cool Icelandic mailbox. If you received a postcard from me this month, it was sent from here.

I drove this beast.

Saying goodbye to Peeter.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2011-08-31T02:58:00.000-07:00

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go....well, kind of. I have one more load of laundry that needs to dry and then I will shut this suitcase and head to the bus station. I go to Reykjavik tonight and then depart for France early Thursday morning. I leave with a fresh roll of canvas that arrived (finally) yesterday and I've somehow managed to narrow-down my belongings to just one piece of luggage. Please pray that my bag doesn't try to kill me on the escalator this time. Thanks.

Wrapping it Up

2011-08-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Things are coming to a close here. I head to Reykjavik on Wednesday and then to France on Thursday. Time between now and then is scheduled for packing, cleaning, laundry, and tying up loose ends. I have 17 paintings ready to send back home and I am hoping to pare down my belongings to fit into just one suitcase- because two bags is just too much for a gal to wrangle.

I thought that today's blog would feature a series of photographs I took the other day- offering you readers a glimpse at the expansive landscape.

Thanks to everyone who watched part of the Open Studio broadcast yesterday. 50 total people watched and it really was a boost for everyone here to get to show the 'world' what we've been up to.

Open Studio on Sunday

2011-08-27T03:22:00.000-07:00

Sunday is a big day for residents here at Gullkistan. After a month of painting and pursuing our artistic goals, we have a chance to show fellow residents, residency directors, community members, and even website viewers our artwork.

If you would like to tune-in on the http://www.gullkistan.is/ website and watch the open studio live broadcast, the scheduled time is 2-5pm Icelandic time (7am-10am PST). If you do choose to watch via the Internet, please know that it is just like you’re peeking in on a very informal event- so there won’t be much structure to the evening, just artists milling around a studio, staring at artwork… but it’s kind of a big deal for us here.

In case you don't make it to the open studio, here are some examples of paintings that will be shown on Sunday:

The One That Got Away

2011-08-26T09:29:00.001-07:00

I got up this morning, brewed a cup of coffee and sat down to write today's blog entry. I'd been thinking for a few days what to write about- I wanted to write something fun to read and not just a daily account of my happenings here in Iceland.

Sipping my java, I typed and chuckled to myself for an hour and a half. "This is a good one," I thought as I proof read my blog-masterpiece. I shoved myself back from the computer, headed to the kitchen for a snack and then returned to the laptop one more time to upload the last of the photos for my entry.

And then my computer deleted it- the whole thing.

All my writing from this morning disappeared into the Internet Abyss, never to be seen again. I got that hot, prickly feeling when I realized that my hilarious, funny, poignant, thought-provoking, life-changing essay went bye-bye. Tempted to punch my laptop in the 'face', I fought the urge to shout some choice four letter words and I let out a sigh of defeat. With that, I went downstairs for a piece of chocolate. So much for my Pulitzer Prize.

One of my housemates saw that I was possibly suicidal and tried to cheer me up. "You can re-write it. It'll be better the next time."

I shrugged off his cheer and optimism. He saw me ignore his words of encouragement, so he added, "Ah. The blog probably sucked anyway."

I laughed.

I never tried to re-write what I had intended to post today. Instead, my afternoon included a much-needed nap and cleaning my room. Sometimes things don't go as planned, reminding me to be flexible and to laugh at myself every now and then.

I'd like to propose a toast: "'To the one that got away'".

Happy Friday, my friends.

Iceland vs. Ferry County

2011-08-24T01:34:00.000-07:00

I went for a drive a couple of days ago. Steering the residency's 1983 Suzuki down the driveway, I merged onto the rural highway and headed into town. Cruising down the road, I spied an oncoming car. As the driver and I met each other, my hand automatically opened to give a friendly wave at the man in his Audi. He gave me a strange look and obviously wondered why someone he didn't know would wave at him. At first, all I could think of was the disappointing fact that he didn't return the wave- and then I remembered that Iceland is not Ferry County, where people wave... and Audis are scarce.

With my errands finished in the village, I returned back to the residency where my brain continued to compare and contrast my hometown of Curlew, Washington with this island I have called 'home' for the past three weeks. I felt like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz when she suddenly realizes that she's not in Kansas anymore. Iceland differs from Ferry Country just about as much as Kansas differs from the Emerald City.

Hints I know that I am not back home:
-People don't wave at each other
-Trailer parks are scarce
-Severe lacking in blue tarps and orange bailing twine
-No one parks their broken-down cars in their yard
-I can't find a Ford pickup anywhere.
-Churches are almost completely empty on Sundays.
-It's really hard to find a bag of Doritos.
-There aren't any Ponderosa Pine or Douglas Fir trees.
-No one is talking about the upcoming hunting season.
-Children don't yell 'MISS BYRD!!!" at me when I am in the village.
-It's not 90 degrees and HOT!
-Gas costs a lot more.
-People do not decorate their homes with taxidermied animals.
-Shark cheese.
-Chickens don't roam the streets.
-Lava.
-Geysers.
-Hot springs.
-Um...glaciers.
-Groups of old men don't sit around local cafes and chat about their farm equipment.
-I haven't seen any advertisements about upcoming 4-H shows or county fairs.
-Innertubing is not considered a pastime.
-Jumping in the freezing cold ocean and swimming IS consdiered a pastime.
-People die from falling in cravases here.
-Bud Light cans are missing from the roadside ditches.
-Coors Light cans are missing from the local roadside ditches.
-Pabst Blue Ribbon cans ar missing from the local roadside ditches.
-WalMart Popcorn Chicken containers are missing from the local roadside ditches.
-"Holy ennit, cousin?" is not a common sentence.
-A series of extra vowels and are present in the alphabet.
-"Aint" is missing from the local vocabulary.
-I can't drive to see my parents on the weekends.
-Gum costs $3.50 per pack at the gas station.

Here's in celebration of the differences between Ferry County and Iceland- two very different places, but both are filled with very good people.

JOE ARTIST

2011-08-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

Joe

2011-08-20T10:48:00.000-07:00

Why You Should Pay Attention At Girl Scout Meetings

2011-08-19T04:18:00.000-07:00

In third grade, I signed-up for Girl Scouts. I admit that I was more attracted to the cute Brownie Uniform and the popularity of being a Scout than the whole 'character building' aspect. I didn't really care about the badges or the activities, I just wanted the uniform and to say 'I'm a Brownie' to all my friends. Shallow? Yes, but I challenge you to find a thoughtful, profound, deep thinking 8 year old- it's hard.

I wore my Brownie Uniform with pride each time we had a meeting after school- I didn't pay ATTENTION at the meetings, but that's beside the point. An entire year passed where being a Girl Scout was a big deal. And then it came time to sell cookies. I distinctly remember NOT paying attention at the meeting where parents and Scouts talked about the process of selling and delivering the Girl Scout Cookies. I figured 'how hard can it be?' and decided to give my snack plate my full, undivided attention while everyone else took notes and listened to the Scout Leader.

I remember getting my colorful cookie-selling sheet and feeling the excitement of getting to ask grownups if they'd like to buy from me. "Miss Judd, wanna buy cookies?...Mr. Grim, wanna buy cookies from me?" Although I didn't pay attention at the meeting, selling cookies came naturally for me and I filled my sheet with orders for Thin Mints, Samoas, and Tagalongs. Before long, I had no more spots to fill and I cheerfully handed my order to the Scout Master. Once the Master was in possession of my sheet, I went skipping away and silently congratulated myself on being the best Brownie ever!
Weeks passed and it came time to have our next Girl Scout meeting. I wore my uniform with pride, showed up at the meeting and then didn't pay an ounce of attention to what was being discussed. You can imagine my surprise when a parent volunteer said "Vivian, come here." I snapped out of my daydreaming and followed her. She took me to the corner of our meeting room and pointed to a Mount Everest sized stack of cardboard boxes.
"These are yours" she said.
My eyes widened. "Mine?!"
"Yeah, yours."

I gazed around the room and saw all the other girls with their mountains of boxes. Each box contained smaller containers of cookies and, as you probably know, it was our job to deliver each box to its rightful owner. Unfortunately for me, I didn't pay attention in the meeting so I didn't really know what I was supposed to do with all the cookies and I did not understand how to go about delivering them. I had dozens of boxes of Samoas, Thin Mints, and Tagalongs, and I didn't know what to do. I stared at my delivery list. Feeling overwhelmed, confused, and a little embarrassed that I didn't know what to do, I packed my boxes and headed home.

For days, I took boxes of cookies to the school and tried to figure out how to deliver them, when to deliver them, what to say, how to collect the money, and all those small details I purposefully (and pridefully) ignored at the meetings. Each day I took boxes to school to deliver and I returned home with those same containers. After about a week of this, I decided something needed to be done.

Before we go on, one thing you need to realize is that I was not the run of the mill kind of kid. Just read the blog about me trying to convince everyone that my name was 'Pepsi', and you will realize just how... um...unique I was. So, when a child has dozens of Girl Scout Cookies to deliver and they don't know what to do, most of them would say "Mom, Dad, I need help, I am confused. Can you help me?" Instead, I took a look at the stack of undelivered cookies in my room and did something very different; I panicked.

Afraid to admit that I didn't know what to do, and too prideful to ask for help, I looked at the mountain of undelivered cookies and decided right then and there to get rid of the evidence of my failure; I ate them. All of them.

It took time and serious effort to eat every single peanutbuttery Tagalong and every chewy Samoa, but I did it. I seriously do not know how I didn't gain an obscene amount of weight and end up featured on an Oprah special titled "Gluttonous Children with No Conscience".

My career as a Brownie ended as soon as I finished my last box of 'evidence'. After doing something so disgraceful, I couldn't even think about attending another Girl Scout meeting. I didn't want the parents or the Scout Master to realize what I had done. Positive that parents and fellow scouts would crucify me for all my mistakes, I decided it'd be best for me to hang up my Brownie sash and call it quits.

Throwing in the proverbial towel with Girl Scouts marked my first ever 'quitting'. I had never belonged to a group before that. I never had the responsibility of attending meetings and following certain rules prior to my year as a Brownie. Although it was my first voluntary quit of something I had originally been enthusiastic about, this quitting wasn't my last.

This morning while journaling, I sat thinking about all the activities, organizations, teams, and hobbies I have quit. I don't even like to say that word "q-u-i-t" and I never considered myself one of those whiny-baby quitters that can't finish what they started... but, I hate to admit, that I kind of am one. Or, rather, I used to be one.

In my journal, I wrote a list of things I've enthusiastically signed-up for and then abandoned or quit.
Here's my list:
Brownies
Piano (twice)
Irish Dance Lessons
Singing Lessons
College Track
Modeling
4-H
Mission Trip to India

I'm sure there's more. With each one I listed, I started to feel depressed and really disappointed in myself. What if I had stuck with these? What if I had finished what I started? I mentally slapped myself across the face for being such a whiny-baby quitter. After my initial bout of self-loathing, I started to ask myself "Why did I quit these?" It didn't take long to see that there was a pattern with each one.

After thinking about each commitment I had copped-out on, I realized that every single one of them ended when I was afraid to admit that I didn't know what to do and I was too prideful to ask for help. They all ended when I became frustrated, confused, or when it looked like I wasn't going to succeed.

Selling cookies, showing my pony at the local fair, learning to play the piano- each one required that I admit I didn't know what I was doing and I needed someone elses' help. Every time I refused to do these things, I ended up quitting. And, just like eating the cookies, I'd try to sweep the evidence of each so-called failure under the rug before others would see my shortcomings.

I quit the mission trip because I didn't know how to get a visa, I quit singing lessons because I didn't know how to hit certain notes, I quit Irish dance because I didn't know what to wear to a competition. All of these are silly reasons to abandon a commitment, and each one could have been solved if I had some humility and asked for help.

As I look a this pattern of enthusiastically starting something, panicking, and quitting, I see a trend that I would very much like to change now before I quit something else.

This past week, in Iceland, I have been frustrated with my surroundings. I have tried and tried to paint mountains and have been discouraged with the results. I am running low on canvas and the package of canvas Mom sent me three weeks ago still hasn't shown up. I have a whole long list of things here that I am either confused with or frustrated by and, knowing my history, this would be a time that quitting starts to sound really nice.

Fortunately, after looking at my long list of abandoned activities, I know that this time- right now- is a time in which I need to admit that I don't know what I am doing and to ask for help. I admit I am out of artistic inspiration here. I admit that I miss home. I admit that I don't know where or how or when I am going to get more canvas. I admit that I don't know how I am going to be able to afford living in Europe for the next four months. With each one of these statements, I begin to think of people I need to seek help from. It is with admittance and a refreshing dose of humility that I sit here in Iceland and say "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING RIGHT NOW BUT QUITTING IS NOT AN OPTION!"

If I had done this with the Girl Scout debacle, maybe Miss Judd and Mr. Grim would have been able to enjoy their box of goodies and maybe I wouldn't have set myself up for a pattern that I continue to struggle with. Now, the burning question is, 'Do I get a badge for this?'

The Art of Teaching

2011-08-17T01:58:00.000-07:00

A Farewell Note from My Students in June

How did August 17th get here so fast? I cannot believe how quickly this month has flown by. If I were back home, I would be sitting in my classroom and trying to figure out how to transform that white room into an educaitonal wonderland. (Posters help, lamps do wonders and a well-placed lucky bamboo is a sure winner). But this year I am not at home, I am not in my classroom and I am not preparing for the annual onslaught of pre-teens to come barging through my door in two weeks. This year marks the first since I was a puny kindergartner that I will NOT be in a school as either a student OR as a teacher. I thought about all this while making my morning cup of coffee- I started to feel whistful and began to long for my clutch of kiddos and all my teacher colleagues. My mind imagined the excitement and joy of a classroom success, and then my mind remembered the challenges and trials that come along with the profession. It was at that exact moment that I realized something: 'Teaching' and 'Art' are a lot alike.

Aside from the obvious- that both words contain a 't' and an 'a' in them, the actual teaching and artistic professions have a lot in common.

First of all, both teaching and art-ing are messy. Neither teacher nor artist come home at the end of a day of work with spotless clothes- there will always be marker, pen, ink, or clay stains somewhere. I cannot even begin to tell you how many articles of clothing have been ruined either by Expo Marker residue from the classroom or from Cadmium Yellow Light oil paint in the studio. I'm pretty sure that, with the exception from a fancy cocktail dress, all of my clothes are stained from some project at school or the art studio. Teaching and art-making are messy, that's for sure. There's no way around it. You get liquids splashed in your face (in the classroom, it's usually snot from a sneezing student), there're stains on your pants, you have to wash your hands a thousand times, and you ALWAYS have some sort of colorful mess on your face when you look in the mirror.

Another reason they're alike is because both professions require creativity. An artist can stare at a blank canvas and be stuck- with no idea of what to do next. "Landscape? Nope. Already did that". A teacher can blaze through a lesson, be a half-hour ahead of schedule, and stare at a sea of students- stuck- with no idea of what to do next. "Hangman? Nope. Politically incorrect." Both teachers and artists need the ability to think on their feet and to switch plans with ease. A boring artist is one that settles into a mindless little rut of predictability. A boring teacher is one that settles into a mindless little rut of predictability. A boring blog writer is one that settles into a midless rut of predictability. A boring-- you get the idea.

In addition to creativity and mess, teachers and artists have something else in common. Teachers and artists experience an intense feeling of satisfaction when a child (or artistic masterpiece) has a moment of brilliance. When a child finishes their first chapter book, or when the painted tree actually LOOKS kind of like a tree- there is a sense of excitment- and pride. Artists and teacher feel excited when there is something to be excited about, they are passionate and fired-up.

On the flipside, however, when something tragic or disappointing happens, no one feels it more than a teacher or an artist.

Scenario: Mr. Smitzheimer has been working with little Devon on the importance of being honest. For weeks, they practice telling the truth and being honorable in the face of adversity. And then, one day Devon gets accused of stealing a toy car from Joey. Mr. Smitzheimer asks "Devon, did you take Joey's car?" "NOOOOOO! Joey stole it from me!!!!" Then Mr. Smitzheimer sees the toy car wedged in the back pocket of Devon's jeans and also notices that Devon is wearing a gold necklace that the neighboring teacher lost two days ago.

I am willing to bet that Mr. Smitzheimer is going to feel pretty frustrated, discouraged, and even a little peeved that Devon lied and stole at school. In fact, I am willing to bet that, after the kids have gone out for recess, Mr. Smitzheimer wonders "Why am I doing this for a living?" and then wishes he had enough time to head to the local saloon and knock back a few before the kids come back from recess.

Scenario II: Phil McPainter has been working on a painting for days- he's starting to see the shapes, colors, values come to a point where he can see progress. He's excited, thinking "This is good. I am good. Things are working out!". Phil paints while imagining a giant blue ribbon hanging from the frame of his masterpiece- a winner, it's a winner! Visions of fame and success flash into Phil's mind as he gently coaxes his painting from a rough sketch to a resolved masterpiece. Then, after completing the last stroke, Phil puts his paintbrush downs and takes a step back from the easel. There he can see his beautiful painting from a few feet away and... oh no... he didn't realize it, but his scenic landscape painting actually looks like something else. He can't figure it out at first, and then it hits him: the mountains in the background look exactly like a pair of naked-buns.

I am willing to bet that Phil McPainter is feeling frustrated, discouraged, and even a little peeved that what he thought was a masterpiece now looks like a piece of tasteless trash. There's no way the judges at the Oil Painters of America National Art Show are going to let that one in the exhibition.

I also bet that Phil McPainter thinks "Why do I even bother!?!?" and then heads to the local saloon to wash a few worries down the drain.

See? Teachers and artists: two peas in a small little pod.

There are plenty of similarities between these two professions, and there are definitely too many for me to mention. But the last one I will discuss today is the fact that both teaching and art-making makes you a target for criticism and critique.

Teachers are almost always under attack from select parents, local business owners, and hoitey-toitey politicians. Parents complain that their child isn't getitng enough attention in class, business owners complain that teachers aren't teaching the skills necessary for highschool graduates to be good employees, and politicians run around saying that the Chinese kids are reading The Iliad while our kids aren't can't even read the back of a cereal box! Well, that might be true. But I would like to see those people try to manage a room of 20 hormonal pre-teens, get them to sit down, mind their manners, and listen long enough to even BEGIN teaching a lesson. Getting them to say 'May I...." versus "Can I..." can take a whole semester, and convincing a second grader to wash their hands after they go Number Two can take a whole year. Teachers face criticism- and if it weren't for their unending love of children, they would have gone to work somewhere else a loooooong time ago.

Artists face criticism too- especially in the United States where 'artist'='no good bum' in a lot of people's minds. Artists get about as much respect as teachers do... actually, probably less. It takes guts to teach and it takes guts as an artist to hang out artwork out for others to see- and to face their comments and, often, cutting remarks.
"I don't like that."
"What is it?"
"My kid could draw that"
"That doesn't LOOK like a tree".
"Why is it so expensive?"

These things hurt. As an artist, you bare a part of your soul when you show other people your artwork. And as a teacher, you bare part of your soul when you share your wisdom and knowledge with children. And, I believe, not many people take time to realize this before they cast out a thoughtless remark.

The nice thing about being a teacher is that one person's positive comment can go a long way. A single person's kind word can turn a teacher's rotten day into a beautiful one. The same goes for art. Genuine compliments from people have carried me through some of my darkest artistic moments. Teachers and artists live off of the positive feedback they receive from others.

As you begin trading swimsuits for backpacks, take a moment to thank a teacher for the time and effort they put into the education of children. While you're at it, stop by a gallery or art exhibit and- before you make a remark- find something to appreciate about what you see. In the meantime, I will be here being creative, messy, and putting myself out there to face both criticism and praise, just like all the teachers back home.

Personal Note:
Here's to all the staff at Curlew. I love and miss you guys.

Joe Artist

2011-08-16T14:17:00.001-07:00

'Hate' is a Strong Word

2011-08-16T01:28:00.000-07:00

Warning: this blog contains the word 'hate' several times. I agree that 'hate' is a strong word and that is exactly why I am using it today.

I hate flies. I hate them. If I could write a decree banning them from the face of the Earth, I would sign that decree with a super-fancy quill pen and then do the dance of joy.
I hate flies- all of them: fruit flies, gnats, those gross, slow, blimp-like flies, horseflies, dra- wait, I can't hate a dragonfly, but you get the idea. I hate all flies except for the cute blue and green ones that land on your finger and smile at you (like the dragonfly)- everything else, in my mind, can just go straight to fly hell where they're surrounded by no poop to feed on and no warmblooded animals to bite, and definitely no people to constantly bother.

My distaste for these bugs came about twelve years ago when Dad, my brother Hunter, and I headed into the heart of the Idaho National Forest for our annual August 'Death March'- the most grueling, difficult, foot blistering, PrayYouMakeItOutAlive, camping trip known to man.

We Abells have been voluntarily signing up for our own version of Survivor since I was about two years old. Each year that passed, I would be given more responsibility. When I was five, it was my job to carry the marshmallows and a water bottle. When I was seven, I got my very own official external frame backpack and graduated to 'I can carry all my stuff now' mode.

When we pack for this trip, we make sure that our backpacks are extremely heavy so we can brag about how much we carried. Dad always wins though- at 71 years old, he packed 70+ pounds last year. There's no way that anyone will top Dad's studly back-packing abilities, but we all try. That's how sick it gets.

If you think this all sounds insane, it's because it is insane. Who else backpacks with entire cans of evaporated milk (for coffee), a heavy jar of real peanut butter, several POUNDS of bacon, and a large skillet? We do. Forget about bringing in dehydrated food- that stuff has no place in our camping trip- besides, with all our other stuff, I'm pretty sure that a pack of Mountain House Lasagna isn't going to ease the staggering weight of our packs.

There's no room for sissies on our trip- it's 'only the strong survive' all the way. I usually start mentally preparing for this annual August trip somewhere in April and give myself the pep-talk of the century:

"You can do this. You are tough. Stick with it. No one wants a baby around. Viv, you are the youngest one, you can at least keep up with Dad..."

With each month bringing me closer to our Idaho trip, my pep talk gets more fevered: "If someone dies on this trip, Viv- you are going to have to pack THEM out too, so you'd better get in shape..."
With no room for wimps and since we look forward to the torture of our grueling trip each year- you can imagine that 'bugs' usually don't even come close to making it on the "Top 100 Abell Hiking Factors that Make You Want to Cry and Run Home to Mommy" list.

Well, one year the bugs DID make it on the list- and, in my mind, they were #1. As I was saying earlier, it was about 12 years ago. I turned 16 two months earlier in June. For my Sweet 16 , Dad gave me a brand new pair of hiking boots- a pair of boots that would, later that summer, help hike me and my heavy pack into our family's secret camping spot.

August arrived and we packed out truck with all the gear, food, rations, guns, knives, fishing poles, and bacon we'd need for the next 8 days. After the 12 hour car ride, we put on our packs, loaded our weapons, and staggered down the trail- ready to make new memories and hopefully live to remember them. What we didn't know was that this year would be one of the most challenging trips...ever.

Hours after we began our hike, we arrived at our camping spot with evening quickly approaching. We used whatever daylight was left to pitch our tent, light a fire, and cook a few hot dogs before crawling into sleeping bags and resting our blistered feet.

Dad is always the first one up in the mornings. He gets up around 6:30 and the sound of him unzipping the tent door usually wakes me too. Each year, the mornings begin the same: Dad gets up, I get up, we light a fire, and Hunter sleeps like a lazy punk until the coffee or cocoa is ready.

This particular morning did not unfold quite like it had years previous, however. As the morning sun rose and our campsite warmed with orangey rays of sunshine, we found ourselves surrounded by small black flies (FLIES!!!). The size of a BB, black as night, and walking around like they were drunk- the flies gave the impression that they were small, clumsy, court jesters and more of a bother than anything else.

Then they started biting.

Each fly that landed on me would stagger around until it found a spot along my hairline or behind my ear to bite- leaving spot of blood and an unbearable itchy welt. Countless bites appeared- even on my cheeks and forehead. We spent our entire camping trip swatting at flies, scratching bug bites, and watching each other turn from a recognizable family member to a giant blob of bites and dried bloody spots. Gross.

The flies were unbearable- even by Abell standards.

At the end of our stay, we gladly packed our bags and hiked to the truck. None of us would tell the other person how sickly they looked with so many welts and spots on their faces. Upon arriving at the truck, I took a look in one of the side mirrors and saw for myself the damage the flies had caused. I saw a swollen face of bites and wounds that left only my eyes and nostrils recognizable.

I believe that my hatred for flies began that week in August- and my distaste for them still continues. It took weeks for my face to return back to normal, but my attitude toward certain flying insects was forever tainted.

Since my arrival in Iceland, I've battled swarms of flies- they are both inside the house and outside. They crawl on me as I try to paint outside, they land on my coffee cup while I try to blog, they even have the audacity to land in my food when I am trying to eat. I swat at them, whack them with whatever item is closest, and even do a comical Jean-Claude Van Damme routine as I try to kick, punch, and swat each one in the house.

Yesterday, my distaste for flies reached an all new level. I spent all morning trying to muster up the energy, entusiasm, and inspiration to go out and begin painting the mountains outside. Finaly, I took my sketch book and backpack out to a spot here at the residency and began sketching a scene. Listening to my iPod and drawing, I took in the beautiful vistas surrounding me and the artistic inspiration started flowing. I happily sat and soaked in the scenery- the mountains, the beautiful lake, the river flowing through the pasture, the puffy clouds, I soaked it all in... and then a fly flew like a Stealth Bomber into my left eyeball. I immediately dropped my sketchbook and attempted to get the small fly out of my eye...but to no avail. It somehow managed to get under my eyelid and that sucker stayed there.

Have you ever tried to draw with an insect lodged in your eye? Well, I did and it wasn't pretty. My eye watered and salty tears dripped down my left cheek as I tried to finish my drawing. I gave up, tossed all artistic inspiration to the wayside, packed my things, and angrily stomped back to the farmhouse where I washed out my eye and gave up drawing for the day.

My trip to Iceland offers memorable experiences and allows me to see some of the most incredible landscapes on Earth- but Iceland comes at a price. There are flies here, lots of them- big ones, small ones, blimpy-slow ones, and all of them are annoying- especially the Stealth Bomber eye-diving ones. I hate them, all of them-except dragonflies.

Change and All

2011-08-14T07:55:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like watermelon gum to make me feel like I'm seven years old again. It gives me that refreshed, youthful feeling- the same one I get when I eat cotton candy or stick my hand out the passenger window a moving car. The other day, I went to the local gas station and purchased an over priced pack of Extra 'Sweet Watermelon' gum just to taste the familiar sweet tang of its artificial flavoring. Some things in life never change for me- like the watermelon/ seven year old feeling, the steady support of my loving parents, and the fact that I still love to swing on a swing set. And then, there are plenty of changes in life that happen- whether I ready for them or not.

A major disturbance in my (then) constant, mostly uneventful life happened two summers ago when my marriage crumbled. Like a Saltine smashed under an angry fist, my relationship with Matt shattered into a million little shards. Almost exactly two years ago, on one late August afternoon, I moved out of our little yellow house and faced my first real dose of shocking change.

Struggling to cling to stability, I reached out for something familiar. I cringe as I think back at that time two years ago when I desperately pursued people and habits in a last-ditch effort to super-glue my broken insides back together. Such acts resulted in marring my reputation and demonstrating to everyone around me that my happy life of constants wasn't so constant or happy anymore.

A lot changed that year. I moved five times, gained and lost several close friendships, and let go of the dreams a girl has when she gets married- dreams of children, houses, and growing old together. I remember sitting on the floor of my apartment living room, hugging my dog and sobbing as I realized the life I had spent four years maintaining had irreversibly changed forever and she was the only one from my married life that still wanted to be in the same room with me.

Some good changes happened that year too. With the help of weekly counseling sessions, and by the grace of God, my heart slowly come back together in a new, better way. Like a house being renovated, I could feel my insides turning, twisting, and growing in a way that made me into a better human being, a better friend, a better daughter, and a better potential future spouse.

Two years ago in August, I moved out and left my marriage. One year ago in August, the divorce was finalized. This year in August, I begin changing my last name. I am slowly, deliberately beginning the long task of changing my last name back to the way it was before I got married. I do not do this lightly, I do it with a sense of respect for my ex in-laws who no longer see me as part of their family and as respect for my ex-husband's new girlfriend. I know that there is only a limited amount of room for Byrds here and my time as one is over.

My decision to take back 'Abell' is just another necessary step in the healing process. As I reclaim my old last name and practice saying it aloud, I experience that same youthful feeling that the taste of watermelon gum gives me. I'm refreshed and ready for whatever is next- change and all.

JOE

2011-08-14T04:58:00.000-07:00

2011-08-14T03:49:00.000-07:00

2011-08-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

Joe Artist

2011-08-11T13:28:00.000-07:00

Busy as a Bee

2011-08-10T13:18:00.000-07:00

Getting ready to paint (see easel and paints in the background?)
Early morning in Iceland.

Sunlight burning off the morning fog.

Getting a hotdog at Reykjavik's most famous hotdog stand (Bill Clinton even ate there)

Doing my trademark 'Viv Jump' at a giant crater.

I waited and waited for a few minutes to sit and write on my blog today and, now that I have the chance, I can't seem to think of anything useful to say. It happens, I guess.

The wind outside is blowing against the windows so hard, it sounds like a burgler might be trying to break in. Fortunately for me, I know that this place isn't really what a burgler would pick out for a good spot to rob...a little run-down farmhouse in a small Icelandic village.

Today marks DAY 3 of my water painting theme. If I see one more beautiful water scene today, I might just 'heave Jonah'. Three days into it and I am sick of water- sick of tyring to figure out how to paint it, what the value is, what colors go in the foreground... blah blah blah. No more water. Well, actually, I can't say 'no more water' because, according to my schedule, I have three more days of this theme before I take Sunday off and then begin working on another theme next Monday.

It's okay that even though I am sick of water scenes and I still have to paint them- this way I won't be disappointed if a painting or two turns out lousey. My heart won't be smashed to smithereens if I don't paint a masterpiece in the next three days, I'll be happy if I can just keep up this hectic painting schedule without losing my marbs.

Iceland's weather these past four days has been amazing: sunny, warm (maybe even HOT) and all without a cloud in the sky- what perfect weather to paint in. I worked so much yesterday that I ended up with blistered lips from the sun and wind...and a smashed finger. I wear these with pride however- thinking of them as an artist's war wounds.

This afternoon, after working on a hideous painting for a good two hours, I took a break from water (ugh) and worked on my Joe Artist cartoon. It's nice to have another project to work on to add variety to the mix.

So far, I've been in Iceland 10 days and I am starting to feel like I know what I am doing. I ride my bike each day two miles into the town, send out a postcard or two, work out at the gym, and ride back. On the days I don't feel like biking, I'll walk. Swarms of gnats and flies serve as my escourt to and from town. I've grown accustomed to all the insects and whatnot here in the area. I am no longer surprised to find a spider dangling from the door-jamb or to find a small gnat wedged inbetween my sunglasses and my eyeball- it's all part of the bug-infested experience.

Here's a quick rundown of the pros and cons of Icelandic living:

Pros:
Not many people
The peole that are here are friendly
Beautiful scenery
Lots of cheap fish and lamb (I feel bad eating lamb though)
Great fishing
One of a kind weather
Beautiful people
Long summer days
hotsprings and steambaths

Cons:
Gnats, Flies, Spiders
Often cold and rainy
Expensive food (other than fish and lamb)
Impossible language to learn
Can be depressing when it's been cloudy too long
Short winter days
Treacherous terrain
Windy

In all, this place rocks. I'm glad that I have 20 days left. =)

Love to all my fam.
More tomorrow.
Viv

I Am Alive

2011-08-09T15:09:00.000-07:00

Incase you were wondering, I am alive- I know that there hasn't been a new blog entry on this site for three whole days and I'm pretty sure some of you thought that I might have fallen off a cliff or something.
Let me assure you that my blogging silence is because I have been painting like crazy and haven't had a single moment to sit and write a blog entry.
Tomorrow, however, I plan on getting all of my painting done by noon so I can focus on other projects (Joe Artist, blogging, working out at the gym, etc.). So, tune in tomorrow for a new, fresh off the press, exciting blogolicious entry from the Vivster.

I'm off to bed. Good night, everyone!

A Sunny Saturday!

2011-08-06T01:35:00.000-07:00

I woke up to sun beaming in my window this morning. As you can see, I was pretty excited.

Iceland Makes Me Sick!

2011-08-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

Iceland makes me sick!
No, really, it makes me sick. I came down with a cold yesterday after painting outside in the freezing wind two days ago. (no wonder I was so tired the other night when all I had for dinner was buttered popcorn, some of my black licorice, and coffee...now that I think about it, maybe that didn´t help my immune system very much either).

The weather keeps us guessing- just when I think it might rain, the clouds part and beautiful rays of sunshine beam from the heavens. And just when I think it might be sunny, rain pours down like the sky´s main water pipe broke. The studio offers shelter and light when the Icelandic climate doesn´t feel like cooperating. I have beautiful vistas from the studio windows where I draw inspiration. Hecla, the giant Icelandic volcano that might just blow its top sometime this decade, sits right outside the window with a small lake in front. If a person can´t find something to paint here, they´re not going to find it anywhere.

The Icelandic landscape always changes. With craters bubbling, geysers exploding, steam rising, the ground shifting, it feels like you´re on a piece of land that isn´t anchored into the Earth. As Ana, a Russian resident, said,. ´the earth and sky are alive´. I agree. I have never in my life felt so tiny compared to this planet. I feel like an ant trying to hang on to Shaquille O´Neal´s jersey hemline.

With the power and majesty of the landscape comes a sense of intimidation. How does an artist try to represent what they see with a finite color palette, half a dozen brushes, and some canvas? The truth is, an artist can´t. There´s no possible way for him or her or me to give the a viewer an accurate rendition of what is seen here in Iceland. After spending about two days trying my hardest to ´capture´the scenes before me, I decided to leave the ´capturing´to a camera and start painting to hint rather than tell. By giving myself permission not to paint exactly what´s seen with the eye, a sense of freedom and artistic inspiration took over. By painting this way, I can let what´s on my inside shine through on the canvas and give the view a glimpse of what Iceland is like with me as their traveling companion. A piece of me is left on each canvas and that´s the way it should. If viewers want an accurate 'every leaf and twig is accounted for' painting, I´m not their kind of artist- and I don´t want to be.

Wow- I guess I´ll put my soapbox away now.

One of my resident housemates, Joe, just came in from painting outside. It just started pouring down rain and the water demolished the painting he's been working on for a good hour and a half. Poor guy, talk about discouraging. Maybe I´ll go make us both some coffee and get that black licorice out of the cupboard for a little afternoon snack.

Tomorrow, I head to Reykjavik for a quick trip to the store and a little plein air painting on the way back (if the weather cooperates). Happy Friday, everyone!

I Love Me Some Popcorn

2011-08-03T11:40:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. Every single muscle, nerve, bone, tissue, ligament, and cell feels broken and abused. Imagine running a marathon, swimming the English Channel, and crossing the Mojave Desert and you'll just barely start to fathom the feeling my body has tonight.

You might be a little concerned and most likely confused because you thought I was on an art trip and not attending Marine Training Boot camp *hoorah!* You're right. I didn't sign up for some intense physical exercise, I didn't even work out at the gym today. Nope, I'm tired because I painted all day. Yep. Go ahead, roll your eyes, it's okay.

I know 'painting' doesn't sound that tiring, and when I think about it, it doesn't sound very tiring either- but somewhere between 8am and now, my gas tank of energy ran dry. I'm barely running off of the fumes now. It's a good thing that I made popcorn on the stove and smothered it in real butter- because I'm pretty sure it saved my life.

Painting all day is like cramming for an exam all day- it's all mental. That's why I'm bushed. Eight hours of arting is a lot of analyzing and focus, not to mention constantly thinking and comparing colors, values, shapes... you get the idea.

Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining one bit. I love this. This tired feeling is a sign of success- it means that I worked today and did something productive. I can't even begin to explain how happy I feel. Two new paintings sit drying in the studio and I sit eating in the kitchen- it's all good.

The alarm clock went off at 7 this morning as planned- and I stuck to my schedule like a good little girl. I entered the studio at 8, gathered my stuff and headed out into the field to paint. The wind and cold tore through my jacket and three layers of clothing, but I hardly noticed how cold I got until I came inside two hours later- frozen like a little popsicle- it took all afternoon and several cups of hot tea to thaw me out.

The afternoon ticked by with me in the studio, working on one painting, listening to music, and silently appreciating the Icelandic landscape.

And now I'm tired. You see, no running was involved, no push ups, sit ups, burpees, not even a heated game of Pickle Ball was played. I had better get used to this kind of regimen since I plan on doing this day-in and day-out for the next 5 months. Just the thought of it makes me think I'd better start another batch of buttery popcorn to soothe my aching mind.

Here are some visual goodies for you:

Who's this person with a bandana and sunglasses on in order to keep the flies away???

It's ME! (my nose had to stay out of the bandana otherwise my sunglasses would fog-up)

First painting done today

Second painting of the day.

Short little video. I ended up NOT painting the stream.

Iceland Day 2

2011-08-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

Hello dear friends and family and anonymous readers around the globe, it's just past 9pm here- I can't ever tell what time it is by looking outside since the sun is up almost 24 hours of the day- but the clock says 9, so I believe it.

Iceland Day 2 is coming to a close and I am extremely satisfied with what's been done so far. First of all, I woke up at 7- which was my goal. I cooked a nice breakfast of rice and raisins (rice was cooked MY way, not the French lady's way) and then headed to the studio to get mix up a palette of colors and start sketching.

Let me explain how this residency works. This particular residency is designed to allow artists of all types live and work in the same area for a focused amount of time. It's like an intense workshop and you're the speaker, presenter, and student all at the same time. I am living in a large farmhouse in rural Iceland, sharing space with two other people who are here for the month. The studio is an old renovated milking barn about 20 yards away from the house- close enough to access but just far enough away to make you feel like you're 'at work' instead of trying to paint in the living room and getting distracted by house business. I applied to be here, sent a resume, included examples of previous paintings and wrote a proposal telling what I'd like to get accomplished while at this residency. My goal, while here, is to get 20 paintings done. I know I can get this many done, but whether I'll like any of them is another question.

So, that's how the residency works- it's like a self-directed art martathon. Personally, I do not do well without a schedule so I wrote out one for myself while here. It looks like this:

7-8: Shower, breakfast, reading/journaling.
8-12: Plein Air (outside) painting
Noon- lunch, coffee,
1-5: in-studio work
5-6: workout, self-care time
7-9: dinner, socializing, blogging, etc.
9: no more technology allowed
10: lights out.

There's two things that might need to be explained.
First, there's the 'workout' time. Well, I have scheduled an hour a day to go to the local workout facility to try to get those Swedish sweet rolls to shrink a little. The facility charges less than $2 a day for total access to their gym, pool, and sauna- it's sweet.

Second, the 'no more technology' part. As you might have guessed, I have a computer and iPhone here and it's really easy to waste time either editing pictures, keeping up with friends, posting ridiculous stuff on Facebook, etc. So, I've put a self-mandated limit on how much screen time I am allowed.

Now, I know it's past nine right now, but I need to break my rule tonight as dinner took a little long tonight. Thanks for understanding.

I sat in the steam room at the gym today. The steam came directly from an underground hotspot and gave off a very sulfurous smell. I learned that chewing gum in the steam room is a really bad idea because, with each breath you breate of the air, your gum tastes more and more like hardboiled eggs. Note to Self: gum doesn't stay minty fresh when you're surrouned by sulfur.

Before going to the gym, I worked in the studio and got one painting done. I don't really care for it, but it's a good baseline indicator of where I am at and, hopefully, I can look back on it at the end of the month and see all the improvement that's been made.

Here's an interesting fact about Iceland: Did you know that there's only 300,000 on the whole island and over half of those people life in or around Reykjavik? This means that the rest of the island is pretty uninhabited. Where I'm at, there's plenty of space to walk, hike, bike, and find places to paint. The only problem with Iceland, that I can find so far, is that it's pretty chilly (feels like late fall), it's cloudy almost all the time, and there's these gross little flies that haunt me wherever I go- flying into my eyelashes and hair. I had a little freak-out moment while hiking in a field today. I walked and swatted at flies and, because of my spastic swatting, I didn't pay attention to where my feet were going and I stepped right into a deep hole of muddy water- soaking my shoe, pant leg, and sock. With a cloud of bugs still trailing me, I did a Tazmanian Devil style spin move and flailed my arms all around me, let out a primitive yowl and then slogged back to the house.

Plein air painters don't live a glamerous life. Either they're getting sunburned, windburned, frost-bitten, mosquito pestered,plagued by gnats, or on a really bad day, all of the aboove. Like today- frost bitten and plagued by bugs. But that's what seperates the men from the boys, you know? You can't make an omlett without breaking a few eggs. In this case, you can't make a great painting without enduring the elements. Well, watercolorists do...but they're a different breed.

Anyway, that's it here. I'm including a little video of me preparing to head out into the wild to paint and a picture of what I got done- don't judge.

Until tomorrow- Viv

The French Lady Lied

2011-08-01T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's 7pm here in Iceland and, after two full days of travel, I finally have a chance to sit and write a few things down. The trip itself stressed me out- what with trains to catch, planes to board, and busses to schedule and all. In between the BIG forms of transportation were shuttles, taxis, and other means of mini-transport- expensive, but mini just the same.

I made it to my artist residency here just 70 km outside of Reykjavik. If you think I'm being vague about where I am staying, you're right, I don't want to give the latitude and longitudinal coordinates of my location- for obvious reasons.
I arrived here at about noon and have spent the day getting unpacked and... well, I don't really want to get into the nitty gritty here in the second paragraph of this blog, so I'll save it for a few paragraphs down.

First, let's talk about the trip from Motala to Reykjavik and then we'll talk about the rest.

I caught the train in Motala just fine, made the necessary stops and transfers and all that jazz with ease and grace (yes, grace). My disgustingly huge art bag, however made me look like an ass more than once and, as you'll soon find out, continued to make me look like an even bigger ass the next day too.

My last night in Stockholm was uneventful- the best part was when I treated myself to a chocolate croissant and a shot of espresso as my little reward for making it safely back to where this trip all started and, to be perfectly honest, chocolate sounded really good, so I went for it.

Fast forward through the evening....bad night's sleep because my bunk mate sawed logs like a Paul Bunyan...okay...blah deee blah. Ding- morning!
I got up on Sunday, walked around town for a few minutes, and then headed to the airport with my luggage in tow. I rode a shuttle with the nicest driver on the planet. He, I'm not kidding' was like Jesus...with a taxi driver's license...and an accent- but, now that I think about it, I bet Jesus had an accent too. Anyway- you get the idea. He was the nicest man ever and told me all about taxis and how some drivers are crooks and some are honest, etc. I gave him a tip and told him to have a nice day and thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have Open Mouth Man as my driver, which would have made things a little more stressful.

I stood in line to check my luggage for a good 45 minutes. By the time I reached the counter, I was in serious business mode.

"Ok, I have these two bags going to Reykjavik."

The ticket agent, a balding mid-50s man with a mustache, looked at me, took a gander at my passport, printed out my boarding pass and then dropped a bomb on my day.
"You can only have one bag. Two bags will cost you. $15 per kilo in your second bag."
I reacted with a not-so-subtle "FIFTEEN DOLLARS PER KILO!?!?!?!?!?!?"
My eyes got a little blurry staring back at him. I knew that both my bags weighed close to 20 kilos each- which means that my second bag- the one with all my personal belongings for the next 5 months was about to cost me a whopping $300 just to check it to Iceland. This boggled my mind because Icelandic Air let me check two bags coming over to Europe, but now they wanted to charge me for two- WTFREAK!?!?!

I discussed this with the balding ticket agent- I'm sure my state of financial panic didn't help his hair loss at all. He thought for a few moments and then let out a sigh, like air being let out of a bicycle tire.

"I'll give you a special deal and only charge you $100."

It was better than $300. I took him up on it- letting a small whimper escape as I imagined a $100 bill being flushed down the airport toilet... which pretty much was happening right before my eyes. Grateful for the man, but filled with a fiery hate for Icelandic Air, I stomped to my gate, and fumed while I waited to board my plane to stupid Reykjavik. "I hate Iceland. I hate everyone in Iceland. I hate baggage. I hate this trip. I hate myself. OOOOH, I hate my hair and my jacket and art and...". After about 30 seconds of self-pity, I got over it and repented for my icky hateful moment. Truth was, I loved this trip, but I was feeling pretty down about my money not going very far AND now I have to find some way to fit all my stuff into one bag and still keep it under the mandated weight limit...which means that Vivian will be walking around in public barefoot and in her underwear for the next 5 months because everything else weighs too much.

My flight to Reykjavik went smoothly; I didn't say a single word to either person next to me. Noticing that the girl to my right was from the US, I thought about talking to her and then I realized that she was so focused on her broken acrylic nail that she'd probably not be interested in a deep conversation. This thought was confirmed when her friend came by mid-flight and they had a 5 minute conversation about whether it was better to FILE your nails or just bite them off. Then, the girl who was sitting next to me, pulled out a bag of dried fruit, took a giant bite of a dried peach, chewed on it for a while and then she scrunched up her face and said "What is this?" She must have liked it because, when her friend didn't know the answer, the eating girl just kept on eating.

I pulled my jacket over my shoulders and slept the rest of the way.

(I am going to stop mid-blog and apologize for how long this is getting, you have my full permission to stop reading anytime you feel like it). Fast-forward through a bunch of stuff you don't really need to know.....baggage claim, ATM, catching a shuttle...

Ok, I caught a shuttle into town...actually, it was a giant bus, but they called it a shuttle. There were only 6 of us on the entire bus and our driver didn't speak English very well. He navigated the streets of Reykjavik and started dropping passengers off at their hotels. Then, he pulled into a giant parking lot and said "My bus can't go any further. Streets too narrow. You can walk."

Huh?

I'm sorry, Mr. Driver, in case you haven't noticed, I am a single female in a foreign country. And not only that, but I have luggage, large luggage. I don't think that wandering through the streets of a foreign city on my own with that doe-eyed "I'm not from around here' look on my face is a very good idea, especially since it is getting dark and we're in the parking lot of an establishment that has "LEAD US UNTO TEMPTATION" written in large font right across the window. I might be a tourist, and I might be a small town girl, but I paid seventeen hard-earned dollars to be dropped off at my hostel and by-God you've got to hold up your end of the bargain.

Others walked to their hotel which they could see from the parking lot. When the driver pointed and said "Your place is that way", I got that "I'm going to be murdered tonight" feeling in my gut and politely explained that I needed a ride.

The driver stood in the parking lot and lit a cigarette. He smoked for a few seconds and agreed that, after he'd finished his smoke, he'd drive me. My gut untwisted a half-turn and I decided to try to soften him up with a little chit-chat.

"So, nice weather, huh?" I said, unsure about what else to talk about.
"Oh, yes. Nice weather. Wery nice weather. Wery nice weather today." I don't think he could say his 'Vs' wery easily- must not be an Icelandic consonant that's used wery much. He said his bit about the weather, dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the toe of his dress shoe.

He dropped me off just fine. The bus navigated the streets fairly easily. I thanked him and said goodbye.

So, that was last night. I went to the hostel, threw my bags down, went to the grocery store and headed back to the hostel kitchen to eat.

In the kitchen, I found a woman stirring rice with a fork, swirling it around in the water, whipping the rice around and around and around. I noticed this and said "Rice, huh?"- like that was a good way to introduce myself to a stranger. The rice lady looked at me and explained in broken English that she was French and the best way to make rice is to wash it 4 or 5 times, cover it with just a slight covering of water, boil for one minute, cover it, turn the heat off and in 20 minutes, BAM!:delicious rice- the best ever!

Well, she looked like she knew what she was doing, so I believed her. But, after trying her little rice recipe tonight, I realize that FRENCH LADY LIED! I didn't get the best rice ever, I got crunchy, half-cooked rice that did not please the palate, trust me.

My night at the hostel was fine, I got up this morning, caught a bus out to my destination, had a very pleasant conversation with the bus driver, learned some information about Iceland, and viewed some of the most gorgeous landscapes I've ever seen with my eyes. The contrast between the land and the sky and the various bodies of water is enough to make you feel small and insignificant. I'm not kidding- Iceland does look like Mordor from Lord of the Rings, but that's because of the giant up heaving mountains, low growing vegetation, and dark looming clouds, but- even with all the Mordor-like qualities, Iceland's terrain and raw state is so inspiring, I think I could spend an entire lifetime here painting and not get sick of it. There's beauty here, and feel privileged to be able to come see it for myself.
There's tons more to say, but I need to stop typing. Here are some pictures for you and a video of me trying to bike into town this afternoon.

Tomorrow, I’ll explain more about the residency

Absolutely gorgeous.

Feeling good.

Coffee break on the bus ride to my destination
Juanita enjoys the view from my hostel window in Reykjavik
Bus driver smoking his cig.
Trying to tune out the girl next to me on the plane. Feeling bummed about the luggage.

Arrival in Iceland

2011-07-31T12:26:00.000-07:00

I wanted to let everyone know that I've made it to Reykjavik safe and sound. I'll get up early tomorrow and catch a bus to where I am painting for the next month. I can't write very much tonight as I have a headache.

Thanks to all my friends and family for praying for my safety on this trip.
More tomorrow.
Viv

Lessons from Sweden

2011-07-30T09:46:00.000-07:00

23 days have come and gone since I left home- 23 days of adventure and learning. Tonight, I sit here at a small table in the hostel's common room and have time to reflect on some of the biggest lessons I've learned. With my headphones on and my computer tuned in to the local country station back home, I hear new songs that have been released sometime between July 7th and now and they are a happy change from the songs on my iPod- I've been itching for a musical makeover and tonight's station offers just what my ears have begged for.

When I think back to my arrival in Sweden almost a month ago, I can't believe how much I've discovered about the country, people in general, and myself. Here's a condensed list of bits and pieces I've learned along my journey so far:

-Banks are great places to stop and ask for directions- they're quiet and have air-conditioning.
-Taxis are expensive.
-Avoid gypsies at all costs.
-Money is hard to come by and very easy to lose.
-Nothing is better than being with people you love and who love you back.
-Trust your gut- if you don't feel comfortable with something, there's probably a reason why.
-Expect delays, plan on mishaps, and always leave with plenty of time to get where you're headed.
-If you don't know, ask.
-My deodorant and toothbrush are my two most precious possessions.
-Patience. Patience. Patience.
-Being a host or hostess is more than just letting someone enter your home, it means making your guest feel special, comfortable, and welcome.
- I don't know anything about cooking or Swedish politics.
-Don't smile at strangers.
-Swedes don't like excessive chatter.
-Nothing beats good soft-boiled egg.
-I get by just fine with a small duffle bag of personal belongings.
-I will always remember the generosity that my friends and relatives have shown me.
-Faith, Family, Friends- these are what matter most.
-After two years, my heart is really starting to heal.
-I miss home more than I thought I would.
-This trip is harder than I expected.
-I love traveling.

There's much more to add to this list, but this is the CONDENSED version.
I leave tomorrow for Reykjavik and then head to my artist residency on Monday. August is a month of painting, drawing, journaling, blogging, Joe Artist, photography, and discipline.... and fun.
Even though I had a blast in Sweden, I'm ready for Iceland- like a child graduates from crawling to walking. I'm ready to walk.

2011-07-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

This blog needed some spicing-up, so I decided to do a little video entry today. Here are four small videos- not smooth, not refined, just Viv and a camera and some random thoughts.
Bing, bang, boom. Done.

A nice little note from The Vivster

Humidity is my Kryptonite.

I know I say 'really' a lot in this clip, and I'm okay with that, really.

Making my mama proud.

Vroom Vroom

2011-07-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

Just seconds before writing this blog, I threw my hands behind my head and leaned as far as I could backwards over my chair- resulting in the most horrid, excruciatingly painful "POP" I've ever felt in my spine. Someone call for a wheel chair some morphine, please. Thanks.

So.... did you miss me? I know, I know, it's been two full days since my last VAA update. I have good reasons for my tardiness, however. Let me explain.

On Tuesday evening (during my sacred blog time), I found myself at the Motala Speedway for some motorcycle racing. Sofia's Dad invited me to tag along and watch Sweden's top two teams battle it out for the number one spot in the country. I politely agreed to go to the event not knowing what to expect. Well, let me tell you, what sounded like a fun evening turned out to be one of the most memorable times I've had in a long time.

First of all, the place was PACKED with enthusiastic Swedes. If you know anything about anything, you'll know that Swedes do not easily show outward signs of emotion, so that makes the fact that these people were excited even more... um...exciting. Yeah.

Secondly, the motorcycle racing itself was pretty fantabulous (that's a real word- go ahead and Google it). I mean, those guys got on thier bikes and rode like Satan himself was right behind them. They tore around each corner chasing after one another with raw competitive spirit. There were crashes, there was dirt flying in the air, there was people screaming in Swedish- it was sweet.

Last, but not least, the reason why the motorcycle races happened to forever cement itself in my brain is because the two teams (Motala Pirates and the (something-something) Indians) were neck and neck throughout all 15 heats- making it even more nail-bitingly suspensful. Yes, the Motala Pirates lost by a couple of points (tears were shed by many a fan) but we'll get 'em next time won't we, fellas!?

Tell you what, I will include a little video for you to see the first heat of the night. The following races were much better than this one, but it'll give you a little taste of what I'm talking about.

So, that was Tuesday. On Wednesday, we went to a dinner party with Sofia's Dad's side of the family and we were there until pretty late. Actually, truth be told, I went home earlier than the rest of the group because I'm a weenie and can't stay up as late as everyone else. So, I went home, changed my di-di, sucked my thumb, crawled into my crib, and fell asleep way before everyone else came home. It's okay, I know I'm a wimp.

That brings us to today- a day spent taking care of errands and tying up loose ends before I head back to Stockholm on Saturday and then fly to Reyjkavik, Iceland on Sunday. I've got tons more to report on, so I'll write again tomorrow and bring you all up to speed on what's new here in ol' Sweden.

Skol! (that's 'cheers!' in Swedish)

PS. If you happened to call my bluff and Google 'fantabulous'. you'll know by now that that whole things about it being a real word was a bald-faced lie. But, it is a good word, isn't it?

Bumblebees are Cool

2011-07-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

It's July 25th- and we all know what that means, don't we? That's right, July 25th means I only have four days left in Motala and then I head to Iceland on Saturday. I seriously cannot believe how fast time has flown while I have been here and I'm trying to figure out how to magically squeeze a few more days into my stay here.

The past several days haven't been very artistically productive. However, since this trip to Sweden wasn't solely for the purpose of painting but really intended to spend time visiting with family. So, I'm am pleased at what I've done- no regrets.

Since I leave on Saturday and it takes several days (if not weeks) for my oil paintings to dry, I don't have enough 'drying time' to do another large painting. Instead, sketches and photographs will suffice. My three completed paintings will be rolled up on Thursday and sent back home to Washington.

In other news, all you coffee fans will be happy to hear that I am up to one and a half cups of java a day. And all you tea fans will be happy to hear that I no longer loathe the coffee substitute- in fact, I've developed a small appreciation for it. (What's that!? Hell's frozen over?!???)

The other day, I went to an art show by a Swedish artist named Viktor Paulsson (I searched for a website for him, but couldn't find anything). Anyway, Viktor did an entire art show about bumblebees and how they're proportionally unbalanced and (scientifically speaking) they should be physically incapable of flying- but they fly anyway...an insect miracle. Viktor did an entire series of fabulously detailed pen sketches of these amazing creatures and then painted them using brilliant watercolors. If you get a chance to observe a bumblebee within the next week, I encourage you to do so- and marvel at their miraculous flying abilities.

While we're on the topic of fat bodies and skinny wings (arms), I would like to make a small confession and tell everyone reading this that I've been eating way too many Swedish baked goodies. I'm pretty sure those kladdkakas are going straight to my thighkakas. As a result, I've started running and walking- hopefully this way I won't have to buy myself an extra plane ticket for my ride back home. I can just see my friends and family greeting me when I come back and trying to act like they didn't notice that it looks like I swallowed an entire hotdog stand. "Oh, hey Viv. Wow! You look...uh...great. I...uh... I can tell that Europe was good to you ((maybe TOO good)). Well, gee gotta go."

Speaking of swallowing hotdog stands, has anyone seen a photo of Val Kilmer lately? I did a Google search for him the other day while Kristoffer and I were discussing who we thought was the best Batman. Let's just say that I don't think Val's Batsuit fits him anymore.

With that said, I'll be leaving you with some pictures from the past week or two. Happy Monday, Everyone!

Headlines on July 23

Sketching Some Houses

Chairs: a major source of frustration

Swedish Hymnal. It's impossible to sing and read a foreign language at the same time

Motala Church

Tuva + Juanita= Best Friends

Tuva loves playing with my hair.

Doodle Session

Fresh Picked Berries

A Moment of Silence

2011-07-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

It's been two full days since the horrific events took place in Norway. I am been in a rare spot here- a visitor to a region experiencing pain and loss. Scandanavians mourn together- each person struggles to make sense of what has happened. I am not Norwegian, I am just a painter on a trip and, as these sorts of events have taken place, I feel the insignificance of my little adventure.

Church was packed today. Scores of votive candles lit the entire front of the church, signifying silent prayers for those most deeply impacted by the abombinable acts two days ago. I did not light a candle, but prayers were prayed nonetheless.

No painting today, just time spent with family and, in my mind, that's time well spent.

Chairs Are Dumb

2011-07-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever tried to sketch a stack of chairs? Well, have you? I didn't think so.
Let me tell you that, from personal experience, it's a lot harder than it sounds. First of all, there are legs everywhere...in every direction, legs, legs, legs- like a Can-Can dancer had babies with a centipede.

If you somehow get the legs properly drawn, good luck with all the chairs' backs and seats. I close my eyes and remember the 'simple' scene I had set up in the living room today: three chairs haphazardly stacked and one black chair on its side. I remember the scene and let out a shudder thinking about the green chair's back and how I unsuccessfully represented that back with paint today. And then I think about all the other unsuccessful attempts I made at painting the other three chairs' various parts.

After the challenges of the legs, backs, and seats, there's an element that I don't think has a name- it's what I call 'I'm out of my league' factor. It's that feeling when a painter, sculptor, or any other artist faces something so completely above their skill level that they let out a sigh and commit this moment to 'learning experience' and have no hopes of mastering whatever it is that they're facing. It's like handing a beginning piano student Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue and saying "Knock yourself out, son." or giving a novice sculptor a chisel and some marble and saying "Recreate Michaelangelo's David".

You are painfully aware of what your skill level is and you know that it does not match the skill required for the project you're trying to comlete. This doesn't give you any reason to quit or refuse to work on the project, it just means that the product will never be seen (heard, witnessed, etc) by the public. Instead, your product will serve as a reminder of how much you still have to learn.

Today, while trying to work on my stack of chairs, the 'I'm out of my league' feeling hung over my easel like a thick fog. This project today reminded me how much I have to learn this year and that I have my work cut out for me. I worked and, as I tried one sketch after another, I pacified my fragile artistic self by saying "This is lame now, but you'll get better at it. No one ever has to see this."

And no one will. Nope, no picture for you. Just be happy knowing that my silly-putty artistic skills were stretched today and it'll pay off later. As for today, we'll just call it a learning day.

I'm sick of legs, backs, and seats. As a sign of my frustration, I am going to silently boycott chairs for the rest of the day and sit on the floor during dinner. Maybe then those chairs will be reminded of who calls the shots around here.

Making Progress

2011-07-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture of my most recent painting, "Still Life with Limes" (12"x12")

I painted this one yesterday and feel pretty good about it. The colors are a little brighter than my other recent work, but...dull-colored limes look like they've gone bad, so you gotta bump the color up a bit.

Today, I started sketching a stack of chairs I made in the dining room. It's a good thing that Sofia and Kristoffer are so nice 'cause I'm pretty sure anyone else would have kicked me to the curb by now. They put up with my crazy schemes, antics, and a few lame puns now and then.

I can't write much tonight. The terrorist attack in Norway that happened today sure puts me on edge and reminds me that the world is a scary place.

Much love to friends and family.

Exclusive Interview #2

2011-07-20T11:40:00.001-07:00

It's Wednesday- which means it's time for another Vivogue interview with myself- totally raw, unfiltered, and only available here at www.hellovivian.blogspot.com

For those just tuning in, Vivogue Magazine is my own imaginary magazine. It's filled with amazing photos and editorials and is much better than what you can find in the check-out line at your local grocery store- no siree this is legit.

My interview this week came at a very inconvenient time. Running behind schedule and not sure what to wear, I showed up a good 10 minutes late. Out of breath and slightly sweaty, I sat down for the weekly interview- I'd prepared a few answers for the questions I knew that the interviewer was sure to ask and I brought a few pictures to show as well.

The interview was held as a small Swedish cafe and, once I settled in at the table, I ordered a cup of strong coffee and then embarassingly had to cancel that order and get tea instead.

Now that I've set the scene, here's this week's interview:

Vivogue Rep: Hello, Vivian. It's good to see you. You look amazing like always- albeit a little out of breath and slightly sweaty- but amazing nonetheless.
Vivian: (sipping tea, tasting its weakness and making a face) Bleh. What was that?

Vivogue Rep: I said you look amazing.
Vivian: Oh, thanks- I couldn't decide between the Chanel gown or the Dior suit, so I just settled for khakis and a t-shirt.

Vivogue Rep: That's nice, dear... Okay, so- bring us up to speed with how your week is going.
Vivian: Well, it's been simply amazing. I've gotten a chance to finish two paintings and have started an underpainting for a third. See?

Vivogue Rep: So, your theme this past week was 'houses'. What's your theme for this next week?
Vivian: Well, I am starting a 'still life' theme. I know that one painting that I am going to do this week is of a few old chairs that are in the house. Sounds lame, but it should be cool.

Vivogue Rep: Yeah it does [sound lame] but hopefully it turns out well. Anything else?
Vivian: Yeah, there's a bunch of limes in the fridge, so I think I'll do a scene with some limes and a red chili pepper that's been sitting by the stove for a few days. I like the vibrant complimentary colors.

Vivogue Rep: Cool. Cool. Did you bring photos of paintings you've finished this week?
Vivian: Yep. (shows pictures)

Vivogue Rep: Okay, good. Enough about art. Our readers are interested in hearing about any men in your life.
Vivian: That's for me to know and you to find out.

Vivogue Rep: Some say that you just went on this trip to find a suitable boyfriend. Is that true?
Vivian: If I wanted a boyfriend, I'd have one by now- trust me. I don't need to go on a big search around the world for a guy- that would be a waste of precious time, energy, and money. Nope. I am single for a reason and I plan to stay that way while I am on this trip.

End of Discussion.

Vivogue Rep: Ok, Jeez. Calm Down.
Vivian: I AM CALM!

Vivogue Rep: Tell us what you've learned about yourself this week.
Vivian: According to my cousin Sofia, I make this 'doooooh' noise (kind of like Homer Simpson) whenever I drop something or come close to disaster. Oh, and I like gummy candies shaped like eggs.

Vivogue Rep: That's underwhelming.
Vivian: You asked.

Vivogue Rep: Well, look at the time. That does it for this week, tune in next week for another edition of Vivogue's Exclusive Interview with Vivian.

Photo Courtesy of Vivogue Professional Photographer

The Bean Bites Back

2011-07-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

At the risk of divulging too much information on this blog, I feel the need to tell you something very important, so I'm just going to come out with it:

I have very sensitive intestines. Very.

I think you might have gathered that from yesterday's blog entry about the giant gut-ache I got after fifteen minutes of Snack Fest 2011. But, just incase things weren't clear enough, let me spell it out for you: V-E-R-Y.

If you're a close friend or family member, my news about my touchy-tummy-syndrome isn't really a shocker, especially if you've had to hang out with me after I've accidentally eaten something fried and chased it with a cup of coffee and then devoured an icecream sundae right after. This happened at Outback Steakhouse almost ten years ago when I ate the 'Bloomin' Onion' and had coffee and a giant scoop of Vanilla Icecream with chocolate sauce on top. I've not been to Outback since and, believe me, there's a reason why.

When it comes to my digestive tract, things get ugly in a hurry and, I am sorry to say, I've had to literally run from one restroom to another with stomach spasms so strong I think they count as contractions.

Now that I've painted a nice little picture in your mind (I AM an artist, afterall), let me tell you why this unfortunate physical condition has anything to do with my artistic adventures here in Motala.

I just mentioned that coffee sometimes can be a bad belly ache factor but I can usually get around this by not combining my caffine with other 'triggers' like the Bloomin' Onion or any sort of frozen milky dessert. I just avoid those things and my body can handle as much coffee as I like and LET ME TELL YOU I like my coffee. I love it. Okay, it's true, if I could marry it, I would.

When I arrived in Motala a week ago, Sofia immediately offered me a cup of good Swedish coffee (so strong, it makes your tongue beg for mercy) and I eagerly agreed to a cup, and then another. Two hours passed and it came time for afternoon coffee. Dinner rolled around and, guess what? We had coffee with dinner too. If there's a coffee heaven, I've been living there for the past week- drinking the beverage like spring water- and enjoying every minute of it.

Until now.

Over the past 8 days, I have consumed so much coffee that I think the lining of my stomach has deteriorated and now, when I drink my favorite hot beverage, my tummy lets me know that it isn't happy- not happy at all.

In order to try to placate my stomach lining, I've done something I swore I'd never do.

I've switched to- (I can't say it, it makes me sound like a weenie. Maybe it's better if I take a running start). Okay. Here it goes:

InOrderToPlacateMyStomachLiningI'veDoneSmethingISworeI'dNeverDo.

I(gasp)SWITCHED(gasp)TO(gasp)TEA---------------------------!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I've disgraced my entire Swedish family by limiting my coffee intake to one small cup a day and then having to turn to tea in the afternoons and evenings. I'd like to take this moment and apologize to Swedes around the world who are, no doubt, reading this and weeping softly.

As a result of semi-retiring my coffee mug, my afternoons here in Motala have gone from coffee-buzzolicious to tea-drab. When the time for a cup of joe rolls around, I let out a mournful sigh and sleepily turn towards the tea cupboard. The only good thing is that, with any luck, my stomach lining will slowly repair itself and I'll soon be back in full swing.

Until then, I'll be sitting here- steeping my tea and without a painful stomach ache.

Dear Tummy, I hope you're happy.

Your's Bitterly,

Viv

Snack Fest 2011

2011-07-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, while walking to the store to mail a postcard, I saw a sign for a snack food that I'd never heard of- something called 'Cheese Doodles'.

If 'Cheese Doodles' doesn't sound tempting to you, you're not human.

Instantly intrigued by the snack, I rushed home to tell Sofia and Kristoffer that I had a new idea for a blog article- something new, something daring- something....delicious. And so came about my research assignment for the next two days- an assignment that I nicknamed "Swedish Junk Food: Exposed". My goal was to try and rate a smattering of different candies, chips, and goodies that we don't find back home and report back to my blog readers just what I do and do not recommend if they ever happen to travel to Sweden.

Kristoffer and Sofia listened to my idea and, after much talk and excitement, we put our shoes on and headed to Ostenssons grocery store to purchase snacks of all sorts for me to try.

We entered the store with the mission of only purchasing typical Swedish goodies. We walked out of the store with 2 different types of crunchy snacks (you can rest assured that one of them was Fun Doodles), a dozen different varieties of candy, and....more Bilar.

When we returned home with our newly acquired food, we launched straight into the snacking research- no regrets, no looking back- this was a blog assignment and not time to count calories.

First I tried the 6 different types of chocolate that we bought, then I ate a gummy Swedish Ferrari (like Swedish Fish shaped like a...um... Ferrari). Then I got into the chips, dip, and Cheese Doodles. I am happy to report back to you that 'Cheese Doodles' is pretty much a Swedish version of Cheetos, but fluffier. Let's see, then it was on to the taffy and caramels and hard candy. I tried something shaped like a gummy 'sunny-side-up' egg and even choked down some salted licorice.

About fifteen minutes into the Snack Fest frenzy, I paused, looked at my two goodie partners and sheepishly made a confession:

"I don't feel good."

For some reason, I thought that my guts would tolerate the torture I was putting it through in the name of blog research; I thought wrong. Pushing a bowl of candy away from me, I told Sofia and Kristoffer that I had to stop with the junk food and and left the room to go get a glass of water.
Even though I didn't get through EVERYTHING we purchased, and even though my intestines still haven't fully recovered from our binge, I can proudly say that I made it through a approximately two-thirds of the goods and can confidently give you a report on my findings. Here's it in a nutshell (you may refer to the pictures at the bottom of this page if you need to):

Best Crunchy Snack:
Cheese Doodles (if you like fake cheese... I'm a sucker for fake cheese)

Best Chocolate Bar:
Kex Bar (uh-maze-ing!)

Best 'I'm a Purist and Only Eat Milk Chocolate":
Marabou Milk Chocolate

Grossest Candy Ever Invented:
Generic Blueberry Hard Candy- super salty, super icky.

Best Overall:
Ballerina Chocolate Cookies (what Oreos wish they could be)

Vivian's Favorite:
Bilar, anything with chocolate, and the gummy egg-shaped things because they're cool.
When I'm done with those, I'll take the following:
Tums, Rolaids, and a barf-bag.

***In other random news from yesterday and the day before: I caught my small oscillating fan on fire and filled the house with the smell of burning wires and plastic. Don't worry, only the fan was harmed...along with my pride.

PS. A big shout-out to my Swedish homie, Gunnel. Thanks for reading. =)

Let the snacking begin.

For those chocolate purists out there

I never compalin about rubbery eggs

Delish

For Your Snacking Pleasure

Cheese Doodles

Ferrari Time

Then Sings My Soul

2011-07-17T10:06:00.001-07:00

Sundays are always special, they offer a chance to take a step back from the hectic pace of the week and appreciate what's most important. For me, Sundays are reserved for family and for God. Before I left on this trip, I had set my mind to take time each week and go to church and to spend time just BEING with the people I love. Today, I got the chance to enjoy these things.

This morning, I ventured to the big church in the middle of Motala. The sound of the ringing bells echoed all throughout town and I easily found my way to the doors of the beautiful, historic building. I entered, grabbed a small red hymnal from the stack sitting on a bench and found my way to a wooden pew.

A traditional hymn played on the organ as a small number of parishioners filed in and quieted down in their spots. The stained-glass windows and the large chandeliers gave off a very 'European' feeling- and, as I took in the scene, I admit that tears filled my eyes. I had longed to be in a place of worship since I left home and it felt good to sit and reflect on how blessed I really am.

The service was entirely in Swedish- and that was fine. I wasn't there to necessarily hear a sermon, but to participate in something bigger than myself. In the entire building, there were only about 20 attendees, so it was a more intimate service than with a larger congregation. An hour passed, I thanked the priest for his message, and went back home to be with Sofia and Kristoffer.

Sofia's dad showed up shortly after I'd come home and invited us to go pick blueberries at the cottage where my great-grandmother grew up. I absolutely love to harvest things (especially berries) so I jumped at the opportunity to go pick some delicious fruit. The three of us picked for almost two hours, chatting about politics, music, and anything else that came to mind. Once we'd filled our containers, we headed inside the cottage where Sofia's aunt made us fresh coffee and offered us some tasty miniature cinnamon rolls.

I haven't done much art today and that's ok. Tomorrow and the rest of the week offers plenty of chances to paint, draw, sketch, and jump back into the hustle and bustle of 'Vivian's Artistic Adventures'- today, however, I am happy to sit and enjoy a Sunday in Sweden.

Pictures Courtesy of Sofia Saleteg:

Blueberries and Raspberries Galore

Overlooking the Lake Near The Cottage

Brad Pitt is My Pawn

2011-07-16T01:54:00.001-07:00

I would like to take a moment and give you a quick stat update on this blog.
So far, this blog site has been visited a total of 3500 times.
And the top four countries that follow this blog are as follows:
1.USA
2. United Kingdom
3. Sweden
4. Australia

It might sound funny, but I check the blog stats frequently to see if people are actually reading this or if I am just contributing to the senseless internet blabber that plagues the world wide web....or a if it is a small combination of the two.

Anyway, I checked the 'audience' stat that tells me the top reading countries- I was surprised to see Australia made it to the top four- especially since I don't know a single soul in Australia right now. Cool, right?

After looking at my 'audience' stats, I took a gander at how people are finding this blog. Turns out that most people reading are friends from Facebook as my blog stats listed facebook.com as the biggest source, and then it looks like people are Google searching my name (or variations of the blog title) to find me...like "Vivian Byrd Paintings" or "Hello Vivian Blog"... you get the idea.

I was just starting to feel pretty neat thinking that there's people out there asking the all-powerful Google.com how to find my blog. People were looking for ME- wow! How neat. I even have readers in the UK and Australia! Look at that!

It was just about then that I discovered sometheing else....
Along with the typical Google searches that involved my name and some sort of reference to this blog, one of the highest searches that brought people to this blog site was a Google search for "Pictures of Crocodile Dundee".

It turns out I don't have a large population of fans in Australia at all. The truth is that the majority of them happen to accidentally arrive at my blog because I put a picture of Crocodile Dundee on my blog a month or two ago- and Google knows about it. I don't have devoted readers in that continent- just a bunch of people who have randomly bungled into my blog.

I thought about getting upset about this... and then I realized I could use this Google search to my advantage. In order to get more viewers, I think I will just start posting pictures of very famous people on my blog- like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie...or...Obama....or Octomom.

Ha! That's it! My secret to increasing my viewing audience- the old 'bait and switch' strategy.

"Ohhh... you wanna see pictures of Charlie Sheen? Guess what!??? You found Vivian's Artistic Adventures instead!" Muhuhaha.

On that note, I'm going to bid you all goodday and if you've happened across my blog on accident because you're just trying to find a decent picture of Crocodile Dundee or Brad Pitt, I'm sorry....kind of.

Base Hit

2011-07-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

I finished my painting.
Let's just say that this one isn't my greatest work, but they can't all be homeruns, right?
I consider getting any painting to the 'finished' status a good base hit though, so I'm loading the bases and getting poised for an artistic grand slam in the upcoming weeks.

The majority of the day was spent either painting or helping Sofia and Kristoffer prepare tapas for a Spanish themed dinner party. The whole thing went off without a hitch- but not without some serious effort, a few burns, and a lot of stress.

I was just telling the dinner guests that I never had the intention of traveling to Sweden for the food, but I have to honestly say that every single meal I've eaten here in Motala has been of the highest quality- wonderful tastes of sweet and salty and savory, and plenty of it.

Tuva (Kristoffer's four year old daughter) left today to go spend the week with her mom, I miss her little feet running around the house and I miss her little Swedish voice.

It's getting late here in Motala, so I will leave you with a few pictures of my painting progress and a promise to bring you up to date on all the latest 'Awkward American Moments' I've been having here in Sweden.

Picking up where I left off yesterday

Making progress

Prett much done

Happy little snapshot

Slow and Steady Wins the Race...or something like that

2011-07-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Motala.

Sofia, Kirstoffer, Tuva and I just returned from having dinner at Sofia's parent's place. I don't think I've ever eaten as much food in my entire life- sure makes up for the spaghetti and scrambled eggs fiasco from last week.

This morning, my alarm clock went off at the ungodly hour of 6:30 and I was so tempted to hit snooze and go back to sleep. But, I managed to drag my sorry rear out of bed and head to the porch for some early morning painting. The light in the mornings and evenings is best for plein air painting because of the strong shadows.

It took about 2 minutes for me to shake the tiredness from my head and start getting excited to paint my scene of three houses (the one I have been sketching for a few days). My 'house' theme this week has kept me busy and (somewhat) focused.
Up went my easel, and out came my paints, and in went my earbuds... time to hit the canvas with some serious attitude. My artistic progress has been a little slow here as I have spent the past few days getting some sleep and spending quality time with family. When given the choice between painting and being with my family, I will always choose family...always. With that said, when it's time to paint, I really need to dive in and get going.

Brad Paiseley played loudly in my ears while I painted this morning, reminding me of home and making me determined to 'cowgirl up' and paint even though I sometimes don't feel like an all-star artist. I painted for a good hour before I reached a good stopping point- by no means finished-... plus, the wind had kicked up and was threatening to scatter my art supplies all across Sweden.

The rest of the day was spent with family- and, since it was raining for the rest of the day, I just started a silly little sketch of a ceramic chicken egg-cup- which we use each morning to hold our soft-boiled eggs.

This evening, before heading out to dinner, I caught a little bit of Disney's Dumbo in Swedish. Let me tell you, even though the movie is in another language, I still cried at the part when Dumbo's mom rocks him to sleep from her jail cell. SO SAD!!!... and I was still creeped-out by the clowns... some things don't need translating.
Happy Thursday to my friends and family at home and all my followers scattered around the world.

Here's some photos for you:

Setting up to paint

My inspiration

Sketching to figure things out

Another value map
(sorry about it being sideways)

When my apron goes on, I mean business!

Paints are mixed and read to go

Ready to do small color sketches

Value and color sketch

Getting started on the final (big) one

Unfinished random sketch...emphasis on the 'unfinished' and 'random' part

Exclusive Interview

2011-07-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

Sitting here, chewing on a mouthful of Bilar (Swedish candy), and staring at my computer screen, I realize that a whole week of adventure is gone. I only have about five months and three weeks left.
(excuse me, I need to grab another handful of Bilar...)

As I was saying, time is cruising by at a break-neck pace and, if things continue to go this quickly, I don't think that I will be ready to come home when time comes to a close...

It's far too early to get misty-eyed about this whole thing ending though- so, now... on to the main event.

Instead of blabbering on about recent events in paragraph form, I've decided to have a little interview question and answer session with myself. I was hoping that some major magazine would have contacted me by now for a real interview, but since Vogue is busy at the moment, I will conduct my own interview- for my own (imaginary) magazine (which I just named 'Vivogue'- when directly translated, 'Vivogue' in Viv-language, means 'Viv-in style'-). Look for Vivogue coming to a newsstand near you.

Here's the interview:

Vivogue Rep: So, Vivian, we hear that you're on an art trip. Tell our readers what it's like to be away from your small town.
Vivian: (delicately brushing her long, beautiful hair from her beautiful blue eyes) It's funny you should ask. My trip has been filled with plenty of excitement and adventure so far. But, let's just say we don't have money-stealing gypsies back home in Curlew.

Vivogue Rep: If you could tell our readers (your fans) one thing, what would it be?
Vivian: Thanks for reading Vivogue...and...if you ever get a chance to travel to Sweden, you definitely should. Oh, and plan on getting lost in Stockholm.

Vivogue Rep: How is the painting going?
Vivian: Good. I have been sketching each day and even started doing some small painting-sketches today. I plan on working on a large painting of some houses tomorrow.

Vivogue Rep: What's the best part about this trip so far?
Vivian: Getting to know my Swedish relatives better...and Bilar.

Vivogue Rep: What's a major difference between Swedes and Americans?
Vivian: Swedes are quiet and they're not chatty. In fact, they'd prefer it if you keep to yourself. And their yards are really tidy- oh, and their strawberries are not like strawberries back home... these are small, dark red, and full of flavor. Warning: they're highly addictive.

Vivogue Rep: You mentioned getting lost in Stockholm. What did you learn from that experience?
Vivian: (laughs) I learned not to be afraid to ask for directions and to pay attention to street signs.

Vivogue Rep: How much Swedish have you learned this week?
Vivian: I’ve learned how to say “worm”, “shell”, “spider”, and “goodbye”…very useful words, obviously.

Vivogue Rep: Do you have anything you want to say to your dearest family and friends?
Vivian: Yes, I do. I love and miss you guys. Don't worry about me, I'm in good hands.

Vivogue Rep: You are so much better looking in real life.
Vivian: Thanks... I guess.

Well, that wraps it up here on this end. Tune in next Wednesday for another Exclusive Vivogue Interview.

Tomorrow's Blog: "Proof that I've been doing work" Pictures of Paintings Thus Far.

This Week's Artistic Theme: Houses

2011-07-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Sweden, just about a week ago, I had no idea what kind of painting I wanted to do. Yes, I traditionally focus on landscapes and still life, but those are so broad and Sweden is a country filled with so many inspiring vistas that narrowing my focus has been a challenge.

As you might have noticed from the pictures of Stockholm, I've been drawn do architecture. This is new for me- as I have shied away from drawing or painting buildings in the past. Right angles and parallel lines are intimidating for me and I always get confused with using one or two point perspective. So, I always thought it best for me and my art-viewing audience that we just ignore the fact that buildings existed... and to paint trees, flowers, and mountains instead.

Well, it turns out that my biggest inspiration thus far has been houses. I love Swedish homes, their tidy little yards, the colorful buildings, and the way each house nestles into its lot like it owns the place. For three days, I have stared at a series of homes right behind Sofia and Kristoffer's back yard and have fallen in love with that view. I decided to try to sketch it out and see what happens. I did one sketch yesterday and another this morning- basically identical- and look forward to the next few days where I will try to paint a sketch and then do a larger, legit painting.

In order for me not to have Artistic ADHD, I need to focus on a theme. By selecting 'houses' for my theme this week, I can rest knowing that my choices have been narrowed and now it's time to get down to business.

I already know what next week's theme is, but I guess you'll have to check back next week to find out what it is =) I'm sneaky like that.

Here are some sketches:

The view from Sofia's deck

Neigboring houses to the west

Just getting things in the right place

Time for Some Photos

2011-07-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

Here's some photos that I took while in Stockholm, enjoy.

Free Coffee! WOOT!

Juanita bought a pair of shoes, but they didn't fit her, so she gave them to me... how nice.

Individuall wrapped sugar cubes- pretty sweet (get it!?)

I loved this painting.

Changing of the guard

Free Spaghetti. Now, what do I do with it?

My little hostel bed- shared a dorm with 7 other people

Hostel common room

Hostel kitchen

Juanita eats breakfast with me

Side Street

Everything is nicely detailed

Beautiful Old Church

Swedish Fountain and Statue

Streets of Gamla Stan
I love the colors.

Goodbye, Stockholm. Hello, Motala.

2011-07-10T09:31:00.001-07:00

This morning, at 6:30 AM, my phone's alarm clock woke me up and told me that it was time to head to Stockholm's Central Station- I had a train to catch.
I quickly gathered my clothing, electronics, and toothbrush, shoved them back into my crowded purple dufflebag with bulging zippers and headed to the station. A fellow hostel-mate, Jake (from Arizona) walked with me as he had to catch a ride to the airport from Central Station as well. He walked with ease, only a small bag in tow and I staggered behind, huffing and puffing, literally dragging my heavy art supply suitcase behind and struggling to keep my purple bag and backpack with me AND keeping my waterbottle from escaping.

The metro station (which I took to take me to the Central Station) sits only a few hundred yards from the hostel from which I left, but I somehow managed to arrive to the metro with Asthma, a major burn on my knee from constantly bumping into my scratchy art suitcase, and drenched in sweat. Hello, Stockholm, how'ya doin'? I'm a walking disaster.

Somehow dragging my belongings along on this trip was a lot easier in my imagination than in reality. If things continue like this, it's going to be a very comical, entertaining 6 months. You're welcome, world.

Somewhere along the way to the station, the top of my waterbottle unscrewed and sent my now scratched and dented stainless steel water container rolling down the sidewalk, spilling its contents and leaving behind a wet water stain all over for bikers and drivers to enjoy. It looked like someone had popped a large waterballoon with a fork. Thank the Lord for Jake 'cause he quickly ran after my escapee waterbottle and kept it from going into the street- and safe from oncoming traffic. I tell you, this bottle hates me- it's ALWAYS trying to get rid of me.

So, with another series of (unfortunate) events, I made it to Central Station's platform and patiently waited for my train (#53) to come. While waiting, I briefly replayed the hideous event that took place on the escalator just moments before- another luggage disaster starring Your's Truly.

Brief Story about the Escalator:
Vivian's gigantic rolling suitcase quickly glided onto the flat escalator stairs with Vivian following right behind. Silver Suitcase's front two wheels got caught on the upper escalator stair while the back two wheels stayed on the lower stair- thus pitching the 48.8 pound case backwards at a 45 degree angle and attempting to shove poor, unsuspecting Vivian off her feet- trying to send her tumbling backwards on the sharp, metallic steps of the moving staircase.

Don't worry, Vivian lived.
The End.

So, in summary: The luggage tried to buck me off the escalator.

My train finally came, I jumped/staggered on board with my stuff and slumped into a very plush seat. I looked around and noticed that this train wasn't like the others I had been on last time I was in Sweden. This one was very spacious, very clean, very cushy, very... pish-posh. Things were looking up. I sat, looking at the polished wood paneling and thought how nice the day's trip was going to be, riding in luxury.

And then the conductor came.

He took my ticket, looked at it and said in a very Swedish-ized accent, "This is First Class Car. You don't have first class ticket. You need to go to Second Class in the next car."

...no wonder it was so nice.

Before I launch into much more story-telling, I should tell you that the train ride was fun (although NOT pish-posh) and I arrived safely into Motala by 11:30. My beautiful, generous, loving cousin Sofia picked me up and has spent all day spoiling me with delicious food, fresh strawberries, strong coffee and lots of conversation.

I plan on being here for the next three weeks. My alarm clock will be set to wake me up early tomorrow morning so I can start sketching and painting.

Sofia: blonde, friendly, gorgous, patient, and generous. She speaks English really well and helps me learn her language whenever I ask for a word or phrase. She's already taken me to the store to buy some of my favorite snacks (Bilar, my favorite Swedish candy is kind of like a car-shaped gummy bear).

Kristoffer: Sofia's boyfriend is handsome, shy, very patient, and an excellent cook. He has a daughter, Tuva (sounds like: "Tou-VAH" who is four years old and as cute as a button.

So far, so good in the city of Motala. I will show pictures of what I get accomplished tomorrow. This blog is long enough.

Sketch I did in Gamla Stan (unfinished)

Heavy Bags

This is how I feel after carrying my heavy bags

My snack got smashed

Juanita got smashed too

Best candy ever!

Much Better, Thanks

2011-07-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

Today went much better. Thanks to my encouraging friends and family who, upon reading my last blog, sent me notes and emails letting me know that things will be okay and to embrace the quirkiness and sometimes frustration of it all.

After the usual morning ritual today, I hit the streets of Gamla Stan determined not to get lost and to have a fun, exciting day. I am happy to report back to you all that I did not get lost once and since I had accidentally explored the majority of downtown yesterday, I recognized a lot of buildings and landmarks I would not have otherwise noticed.

I sketched, watched the changing of the guard outside the royal palace, drank coffee, journaled, came back to the hostel for a bite to eat, went out again and saw a very odd street show (pictures and video below) complete with contortionists and bellydancers, and sat talking with two dorm mates at the hostel.

Serena-26, from Norway- is darling. I really enjoyed her company this afternoon. She's fun, relaxed, and blunt and enjoys her two cats (Sylvester and Champu). We talked about tattoos, piercings, and food.... and she even helped me with learning some Swedish.

Sultan- from Uzbekistan- just turned 21 today and wears an Armani bracelet. He's dark skinned and very polite. He enlightened me on the workings of the Uzbekistani government, police and even talked about Russia. He also told me that his mother smashed his iPod when she got mad at him for listening to music instead of listening to her. He told me that I look like Scarlett Johansson, so he's pretty cool in my book.

After they left, I went out and sat in the sun, watching the boats come and go in the harbor. While sitting, I decided to make a list of random things have been observed or that have happened to me- here's my list (in no particular order)

1. Sultan asked me for 'ear sticks' this morning, which... to find out... meant Q-tips
2. A random Asian woman pretended to bonk me in the head with an inflatable hammer today.
3. I found individually wrapped sugar cubes today- luxury.
4. Hardly anyone is obsessed with their smart phones- maybe 5% of people I see each day are either on the phone or using it.
5. So far, I have been told I look Swedish or Russian.
6. Yesterday, while on the metro, I fell backwards when it took off and had to be caught by a guy behind me.
7. For dinner tonight, I had spaghetti with scrambled eggs mixed in it. Sounds gross, but it was cheap.
8. I met a German girl named Victoria that, when told that I was on an art trip, looked at me like I was scum on the bottom of a shoe and quickly dismissed herself from the conversation.
9. No one carries water bottles with them.
10. I have four large blisters on my feet.

Here's some photos from today:

My computer isn't working very well tonight, so I can't post as many pictures as I would like. More to come when technology isn't such a pain. xoxo

Rough Day

2011-07-08T10:52:00.000-07:00

Today sucked. I know I don't usually use such strong language, but i have to tell you that this one was seriously a challenge.

It started out pretty well. Slept in 'til 8, got dressed, brushed my teeth, washed the face, threw on some deodorant, and headed out to grab an espresso and a fresh croissant. I ate my pastery and enjoyed the quiet streets of Gamla Stan. And then I headed out to the city center to find a cheap purse to carry my waterbottle and small amounts of cash (I have a story to tell you about that waterbottle...I'll save it until the end of the blog). I found a good $6 bag at H&M. Everything looked great.... until I ran across a gypsy... who swindled money out of me.

I didn't see it coming, but I somehow walked away from his sidewalk game in tears. If you asked me what happened, I couldn't really tell you. One minute he was hiding a foil ball under three cups and asking people to tell him which cup the ball was under. I stopped to check out all the commotion. Then he said "young lady", called me over, asked me to try and I lost and he took my money.

I stumbled 'home' in a daze wondering 'how could this happen?' Wait. People warned me about these sorts of things. I just hadn't been warned about the 'foil under the cup' gypsy. My guard was down. I can't be a victim 'cause it's my own damn fault. I should have flipped that guy the middle finger (in the nicest, most 'recently baptized' Christian way) and said "ska-rew-a-you!" Instead, I handed my money over like a doe-eyed kindergartener. What a crock of shiznizzle. I hated myself for being such an easy target and swore "NEVER AGAIN!!!" to God and myself. This will not happen again.

Since my spending money for the day was gone, I decided to head to the Central Station to find out how to purchase my ticket for Sunday when I head off to see my cousin Sofia. I headed towards where the station was and got lost.

I stopped at 7-11 for directions which, by the way, has the nicest array of fresh Swedish baked goods that I have ever seen. No 7-11 in the US has anything even remotely as nice. We have stale maple bars, Swedes have cinnamon rolls the size of dinnerplates.

Anyway, I got directions from 7-11. And then I had to get directions from a banker. And, after wandering around for a half hour, I finally found the elusive Central Station. I tried to use my debit card to purchase a ticket for Sunday- and the machine rejected my card... not because I didn't have any money (even though I'm sure that gypsy would have liked to get his hands on all my cash, I still have a little in reserve on my card). No, my card just didn't work. And neither did any of my other ones. So I called the bank. The bank's automated system prompted me to speak my request into the phone, but, since I was in the station, all the commotion kept the fakey-computer operator from hearing what I had to say. The robot woman on the other end kept saying "I'm sorry, I didn't get that" over and over.

I went back to the hostel for the second time feeling defeated. I called the bank again and got a little feisty with poor Karen, my customer service representative. She didn't know what was wrong but blamed it on Sweden's card reading machines. Well, Karen, I'm here for a month, so I hope to Heaven that this gets worked out sooner rather than later or else it's going to be one card rejection after another.

I poured myself a cup of coffee from the free stash of coffee and tea in the hostel kitchen and called Mom. I didn't want to sound like a little babyish whiner, but I'm pretty sure I came across that way- but if you can't sound like a baby to your mother, who can you sound like that to?

After talking to mom, I set out to go back to the train station and attempt to buy my ticket again. With dogged determination, I boarded the metro like a local, marched my way up the steps to the station and....got lost again. Seriously.

I asked directions from a man playing "Winds of Change" on a guitar (see video below). He told me where to go, remarked on my outfit, asked me where I was from, etc. Somehow, the conversation turned to Alaska- when he heard 'Alaska' he spontaneously burst into a song about a gay eskimo, sang two verses and then asked me if I had plans for the evening. With a definite "yes" I quickly thanked him and found my way to the station.

I got the ticket.
I got back on the metro.
I got off the metro.
And, for the third time, I got lost.

But, the good news is that I found my way back- using logic and landmarks and strange sounding street names to steer me home.

I am here, and I will remain here until tomorrow morning when I head out agian...and I will not get swindled by men or hit on by a street musician, and definitely will NOT get lost.

I didn't have much time today to snap many pictures, but here's a few random ones for you to enjoy:

A beautiful display of desserts at a local cafe.

Doesn't get any clearer than this.

Singer on the streets
(sorry for the pole right in his face it was the only spot I could stand).

Story about the water bottle: in the past 30 hours, I have misplaced my stainless steel waterbottle a total of six times. Yep, six.