On Not Sleeping

Last night, in yet another failed attempt to sleep, I got up and accomplished quite a bit on the above piece. I sewed around all the inner edges of the letters, where the intersect and overlap the insert of horizontal fabric. I'm glad I had something to do, but I sure would rather have been asleep, leaving the artwork for day time.
Do I need to tell you that not sleeping sucks? Of course not. I'm tired, I'm not thinking clearly, I've lost some of the edge of my sense of humor, I'm probably not making a whole lot of sense and hell, I worry that my judgement has gone out the window. (Someone stop me if I consider voting for Ted Cruz. That's what lack of sleep can do to you. Snark, snark, snark.

That mug would wake the dead!! My eyes! As Robert Reich cogently pointed out in a 4 point presentation, Ted is even scarier than The Donald.)
So here I am again, at 3:21 in the a.m. wide awake and posting a blog that leaps from my latest art work to weirdo republicans in a single bound. But I guess this beats lying in bed, debating the (un) merits of getting up versus restlessly turning from side to side, trying to convince yourself that you're almost a sleep. Surprise! You're not!
There is that mysterious moment when you feel immersed in pool of almost not-consciousness and you just let go and slip into sleep, if it's going to happen. The "if it's going to happen" is crucial because if it's not happening, you spring back up like, "Hello! I'm actually wide awake!!" I've become really good at that part. Contemplating that moment of suspension and surrender is not helpful because if your twitching monkey brain is busy analyzing the threshold of sleep instead of simply crossing it, you're not sleeping.
So here I am, the only being awake for miles around, hoping to finish up this blog posting so that I can go back to the bedroom and drift off. I know that since Jules the Dog died, my sleep patterns have gone to hell. In the past if I occasionally couldn't sleep, Jules saw it as his duty to keep my company. Now, even not sleeping makes me miss Jules...
I am hoping that the impending (some time mid week?!?!?) arrival of our latest bundle of canine joy will assist in recovering the ability to sleep soundly. But I do need to take into consideration the fact that small puppies who are not house trained need to be taken outside every two or three hours. That'll do wonders for my not sleeping!

Puppy Porn

Some of you will certainly think I'm crazy and that's your right. But it comes down to there being (as always) two kinds of people. The first kind is the person who loses their dog and goes into an extended period of mourning and sometimes never gets another dog. I fall into the second kind of  person: life without my familiar, my little shadow, my dog is unbearable and unthinkable.*
I have not been able to sleep much or well recently. I don't suppose that surprises anyone! One of the only things I can think to do when faced with sleeplessness is to play on the Internet. Inevitably, I found myself surfing YouTube videos of adorable puppies rolling around with their litter mates. I call it Puppy Porn. I did this surreptitiously, (much like one hears of Japanese business men trolling the Internet at work, checking out the T & A).  I mean, it's four in the morning and I'm up huddled in front of a flickering screen overdosing on little bundles of fur and joy... one viewing leads to another and another.
That led to seeking out my (remembered) Google searches of years past, after Frank the Dog departed this mortal coil. I can assure you getting a puppy is much harder than having a child.
If you care to take minute to corroborate my hypotheses, type in a breed or type of dog into your search engine. I am a combination dog person, as you probably know, and my preferred "type" is a mid-sized spaniel/retriever mix. Hundreds of possible doggie data bases come up, but once you start an actual perusal of the listed results, strange realities appear. The first is that due to all the spaying and neutering, the mixes listed are peculiar. Anything that can be crossed with a Poodle and given an icky name with "oodle" attached has become uber popular. (The first such cross that springs to mind is the infamous "Goldendoodle" that the "developer" of has since admitted it was the worst mistake he ever made. Follow that with Cockapoos and Woodles (half wolf/half Poodle, anyone? I can't make this stuff up!) The next thing that impresses the individual in search of a canine soul mate is just how expensive these "mutts" are. How about thousands of dollars? Not kidding! The mind reels...
So I was having no luck finding my specific match- except these newly designed dogs that are a combination of Golden Retriever and Cocker Spaniel that are some times referred to as Comfort Retrievers or Mini-Goldens (but even these are for some reason having Poodle snuck into the mix)
and these mid-sized cutie pies are commanding about $1800 and a waiting list and one breeder (that Bob and I even visited pre-Frank) is now requesting a non-refundable $100 visiting fee! Are you still with me? Is it me or are things seriously skewing insane? (The punch line to that joke is they all look just like my college-years dog, Archie who came from the Meriden dog pound and cost a princely $25. I should have bred the little bugger. We could be rich by now!)
So... then I thought, "Okay, okay. It's supposed to be a humane and good thing to adopt. Let's see if this situation has any possibilities." I checked every rescue in New England and I saw one dog that seemed attractive. She was about a year old, although I do want a puppy for Bob and myself, I am attempting flexibility and open-mindedness. Lo! and behold, she was actually listed in Connecticut(!) and I'm thinking "great!" but then you click on the adoption requirements and you realize that it's become even more draconian than previously feared to "do the right thing". Page after closely typed page of laws, bylaws, restrictions and even the caveat that if you want a dog sooner rather than later, this is not your best bet and how they have to visit your home and need copies of your last twenty years of income tax statements and blood work and even then THEY choose the dog to place with you. In short, forget it! I refuse to be grilled and dissected and subpoenaed in the name adopting a used dog. I haven't mentioned the fact that the very difficulty in obtaining a dog through a rescue is one of the reasons why there are so many designer breeders out there in then first place. And it is actually less expensive to buy a puppy or dog from a breeder (many purebred with registration papers) than to adopt. This dog I mentioned? They wanted over $600 for her! (You're also taking a risk getting someone elses problem child. Many dogs are given up as teenagers (between 6 months and a year or so) because the tend to be nuts and exhibit crazy behavior and go out of control. I personally like them at that age, but then I'm dog obsessed.)
I have had enough dogs and dog experience to know that Woofie/Archie/Charlie (who no one will remember because we only had him three weeks as he was sick when we adopted him and he died!)Ricky/Frank/Jules were all tremendously great dogs and who all had tremendously great lives as we are nothing if not dog-centric. And I know what I'm looking for in a friend...
Wish us luck!


*And never think that searching for another dog shows disloyalty to the recently departed! On the contrary, it is the highest tribute to the deceased that life is completely lacking in savor and shape. I experience so much with and through a dog's company!

A Eulogy for Jules 2010-2016

What can I say about Jules the Dog now that he's gone? I loved him; we loved him. He was a wonderful dog. It is too terrible contemplating our present lives, without Jules. He was our constant companion and a vital force of nature. The house is too quiet and very empty.
Jules loved snow and tennis balls and chasing squirrels and carrying large sticks. He was silly and funny and smart and tolerant of my off-key singing of atrocious songs in his praise. (I know he secretly loved hearing my nonsense tunes, extolling his virtues, even though he rolled his eyes and acted embarrassed.) He was a truly handsome dog. He wasn't even six...
He has been gone almost a week. I have left a bowl of water for him in case some spirit incarnation of his is thirsty and needs a drink. His tennis balls are here, buried under the snow. I haven't been able to go for a walk yet without him. I have cleaned up all his silky black dust kittens (and he did know how to shed constantly!) but I would gladly have fur-encrusted stairs if it meant that Jules was here. Fuck a clean house!
As is apparent to anyone who follows this blog or was fortunate enough to have met him, Jules was a star.

Gardening in February

This is the truck the morning after the Connecticut Horticulture Society's Symposium that Bob and I attended yesterday. Long day! We were up early to attend to all the "farm chores" before driving off to Hartford where Bob had been asked to present as a vendor. Fortunately, we made some money because we've done a few of these events and came home without having sold a bloody thing. Not only are you out the  money that they charge to be a vendor, but you are doubly frustrated by having to schlepp all that metalwork home again!

And while this may look like a truck full, it is a much lighter load than we left with. But at 5:00, when the symposium ended, this weighs way more than it did in the morning... coupled with the fact that the hall where we all set up was up a labyrinth of halls and elevators and some moron parked thier car right in front of the loading dock so that we all had to hand our items up and down and carry them to our trucks and vans. Bob and I were exhausted by the time we got home, but we did hear a few interesting lectures on shade gardening, odd edibles (paw paw and hardy persimmons), and gardening to encourage pollinators and beneficials. A nice diversion from that unwanted snow...

The heavy wet (and does anyone want to say "unexpected?") snow on Friday morning caused a heavy limb of the pine tree directly above Maggie's barn to break off. It scared the hell out of Maggie who circled, snorting and spooking for a good while afterwards. (She may have even been in the barn when it landed!) Much to my chagrin, she began chewing on the tips of the pine branches, forcing me to run into the house and do a quick google search to learn that pine tree needles are actually good for horses, providing a green, fresher source of vitamins and fodder in the winter. Who knew?

 

Bob and I pulled the branches down, Maggie gets a free lunch and no harm was done to the roof. Now, if only this snow would go away...
Oh! We might have been tired but we did manage to stay away long enough to hear 2/3 of the those foolish republicans take pot shots at each other. And we are very excited that Tuesday is the first primary AND the start to Mardi Gras! Where is my king cake?!?!?!

Happy Birthday to Beatrice!

Yes, there's a first time for everything!

This is the only day of the year that I can give my sister Beatrice shit and not get her mad!
And look! It has your name all over it!

Compost- the black gold that will make your garden the envy of all the other gardeners! And piles and piles of it... delivered by the producers directly to your Cromwell garden.
Just look; even in the dead of winter, flowers sprout, as if by magic:

And we've arranged to have it shipped, factory fresh-

(Yup! that's the factory) straight to you by the truckload, eliminating (get it?) the middle man. (Actually, it's been perfectly aged in our open-air aging chambers and tossed and rotated lovingly.)
So... Happy Birthday to you, Beatrice!
xxoo
Rita, Bob, Jules the Dog and (most importantly) Maggie the Mexican Pony.
(I had to do something different! You'll either love this or hate it...)

An Unfortunate Exchange (Reason Number 765,500 to Hate the Art World)

I think of myself as a reasonable artist. I have been practicing my art for a substantial amount of time (like the better part of 59 years) and have a pretty clear idea that my work has "value". I have shown enough- and sold enough!- to know that I'm not some hack who wastes peoples time trying to corner them and force my work down their throats. In short, I believe I make work of merit and I deserve an audience and at least a modicum of cordiality when I approach a gallery professionally.
Last fall, a new gallery opened in a near by town. A friend had stopped into the space and even ventured my name and Bob's as likely candidates for showing at the new venue. Bob and I called in one afternoon and were pleasantly surprised to see interesting work of an experimental and conceptually engaging nature. We additionally had a positive conversation with the youthful husband and wife (formerly of New York City) who were running the gallery. Both Bob and I left our web addresses and suggested they take a  look.
Several weeks later, I called the gallery and talked to the male half. He immediately acknowledged me- again in a positive manner- and stated as how he'd looked at my web site and was interested in my artist's books and how I encouraged hands on interaction with them. He even asked if we were available on a certain Monday as he said he needed to be in our area (we are only one town away.), Unfortunately, I had to work and we agreed to set a time in the near future for a studio visit. Of course, they had a new show opening and then the holidays came and everyone got busy so it wasn't until the other day that I thought to check in...
When I called, he again remembered me but I detected a strain in his tone. Before I could even recommend another attempt at setting a date for a studio visit, he immediately said, "Well, we're actually booked for the rest of the year." Me, being all affirmative and trying to be upbeat and chipper replied, "We all know that most shows are scheduled well into the future and artists often have to wait a year or two to show. Besides, sometimes artists drop out or are unable to complete the work and there comes an available time to show." (See? I've been at this a long time...) But I'm starting to get that queasy, twisted feeling that comes when a conversation shifts into unpleasant territory- much like trying to hook up with someone that you have a crush on and it dawns on you that the feeling is not mutual. A lot like that! Anyway, I'm nothing if not persistent (but not in a creepy stalker-ish way!) and I said, "Look: I'm returning this call and following up because you expressed an interest. This isn't like a "cold call"". And he responds, "Well, honestly, I don't usually drive all over the place making studio visits." We're only in the next town... it's not like I've asked him to drive to Montana to see some lame-ass work. Besides, he'd encouraged me!
So I finally, trying very hard to not sound utterly foolish, desperate and like a jilted suitor, said, "Well how about I bring some work by the gallery?" To which he had to agree. But by this point, I'm thinking, "What a complete A-hole!" And why not make a poor artist bend over backwards and jump through fucking hoops?
Most artists will recognize this story. Curators, art dealers, critics- people even tangentially associated with the arts- feel they can ride rough shod over artists. Yes, there are too many of us but the system that has sprung up around artist sucks, to put it bluntly. I am so tired of feeling like I'm asking for a favor or a hand-out or some bizarre perversion simply because I need what most artists need: an opportunity to show my work.And how on earth are we to succeed if the very system that presents our work is manned by weasels that run the other way when they see us coming? I've been told repeatedly that dealers/curators feel "pursued" and "put upon" by pesky artists; they are jaded. But what's an artist to do? We are told we need to be aggressive and persistent, but then we're rebuffed. I was actually told one time, after asking for the contact information of a curator who had selected several pieces of my work for a show, "not to "bother" the curator. !?!?!?!!?!? WTF?
I know there's a fine line, a balancing act to follow. But does anyone have those guidelines for me to figure out just the right mixture of push and pull? And don't lead us on. Believe it or not, we're adults. that is, if you're not interested, just say so. Pleasantly.
So, in short- you Art World "power brokers": be nice! Artists have it hard enough.

Dog and Pony Update

I haven't featured our fluffy barnyard friends recently so I decided this was as good a time as ever. Let's check in with Maggie the Mexican Pony and Jules the (Perfect) Dog.
This is what greeted me in the field today:

Maggie spent a good part of the night shellacing herself in mud. Do we remember that Maggie is a BLACK horse? Here's a detail of her back end:

She looks like a brown and black zebra! After thirty minutes of currying and brushing, she looked marginally better but wherever you touched her, puffs of dust arose. In addition, she has thoughtfully whacked her foot on a frozen chunk of mud (I am conjecturing...) and took a big piece of her hind hoof off. Ouch. No pictures of the damaged foot- it's too pathetic!- but here's her other side. It's a bit more presentable:

At this stage of the winter, with all the fuzzy coat, it's almost impossible to clean them. Maggie resembles and old sofa in a basement rec room.
And Jules? Yes, the Perfect Dog continues his winning ways.

There he is, contemplating his very favorite activity. (Hint: it has something to do with chasing small round things.) Maybe he's waiting for snow. He does like snow, unlike the rest of us. But in the meantime, Jules has made himself super useful by providing logs for the wood stoves. Most mornings, he selects a log or stick from our walk and carries it back home. Our neighbors find this highly entertaining, especially when he chooses an especially long branch and he looks over his shoulder, expecting me to pick up the other end and help him carry it home. We then proceed up the road like a yoke of oxen. How perverse is it that he makes me work on our walks?

But there's a new twist. Jules is pretty smart and he figured out how to correctly train me. Several times recently, he picked out a log that was a bit too wide around to fit comfortably in his mouth. He struggled with lifting it and I'd try and help but I found myself carrying his log, with Jules glancing approvingly at me. I have become a log valet for the dog!