Monthly Archives: August 2013

Rosey Thoughtfuls

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On my birthday this year, friend Amy and I went to our diner, where the upholstered backs of clam shell shaped booths re-cast us into the Birth of Venus, with the obvious advantage that we can still order Greek Salad from our regal surroundings  (no onions on Amy’s, please).  In honor of the day, we had a serious talk about my hopes for the upcoming year, and I told Amy that all that really mattered to me was to keep making pictures I loved for my blog.  “You know, Brenna, have you ever thought of showing your pictures at an art fair?  Because I love it – it feels so great to have people come by who want to look at art and talk about it.”

I think I set my fork down in mid bite.  At least,  I hope I did, because Amy’s comment had stopped my mind so thoroughly, I surely would have stabbed myself in the lip if I kept trying to aim lettuce at my mouth.   “Amy, you know, it never occurred to me to show at an art fair just for the fun of having people see my pictures.  I only ever think of it as a way to sell something, and you know, that’s just too depressing.”

“Brenna, its really fun.  You should do it!”  Amy said, and right then, she invited me to share her exhibition space at the Riverwest Art Association Walk in October.   Maybe it was the muted pink of our circa 1990 surroundings, but I swear a rosy glow began seeping into some awfully tenacious shadows, ignited that day by my friend’s heartfelt gift of encouragement.

So here we go, folks.  Little by little, I am getting ready with new images and old – picking sternly from among the self-indulgently crowded field of “darlings,” trying my hand at cutting mats and scrounging frames, facing the scariest dragon of all, ordering prints.  I surely will appreciate your feedback, if you notice one or two pictures you really like.  If this blog is evidence of anything, it is how often my judgement is impaired where my own work is concerned.

Wish me luck!  (I hope I don’t screw this up….)

The Little Heroine

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She thinks she thoughts in butterflies
that floated on the breeze
Where weightless words their clamor sound
she sinks the deeper on her knees.
                              Sometimes, I just take the dictation, folks.

So, yesterday I spotted the unmistakable contour of greyhound ribs as I approached the coffee shop.  Sorja (or something like that), was sitting on the long covered porch outside the cafe, with her friend, the black lapdog Slick (this name I am sure of), and two humans whose names I never did ask.  And when I say sitting, of course, I mean she was standing with her nose at exactly the height of the table top, looking hopeful with large, dark eyes.   Slick, being about 10% Sorja’s size, was nestled majestically on his human’s lap, looking serene.  I gathered the details of Sorja’s life while scratching her white velvety haunches – a breeder, from Dubuque, finally adopted at age nine.   Her life had not involved any table top surfing, of that I am sure.  Not wanting to be too much of a greyhound stalker, after a brief mention of my own retired racers, I left Sorja in peace and went inside to get my coffee.

As I waited for my 3 espresso shots (and yes, I let them give me the fourth for free),  a little tide of loss and joy surged through me.  I thought of Sorja waiting so expectantly for Something Good to Happen for Dogs.  I know just how this feels – I experience it myself, an emotional undercurrent so deep I have to close my eyes and focus on it more or less everyday. (I call this lovingkindness meditation, though Sorja might call it A Nap.)  I looked around the cafe for something that could make Sorja’s dream come true.  Not quiche, not a peanut butter sandwich.  In the cooler, below well ordered rows of colorful cans and bottles of organic bubbling sugar water, I spotted Something Good for Dogs.  String cheese would do nicely.

“Can Sorja have string cheese?”  I asked her Mom.  “Oh, yes!” she said.  Sorja had her wide, dark eyes already fixed alertly on my hands.   She had felt the connection of expectation engage between us, like the moments before the gates crack open and all the world is just this chance to Catch The Bunny.  The promising crinkle of plastic peeling apart held her attention.  Here was Something Good for Dogs.   With flat, polite teeth, she took a pea sized nibble from between my fingers and looked back up at me, as I gave Slick a little treat, too.   I laid the remaining cheese in front of her Mom. “You can give her the rest,” I said.  (No one appreciates a stranger who makes their dog sick from too many treats).  Sorja moved her head towards the cheese, drawn magnetically to the hope of the next nibble., completely ignoring me as I said goodbye and left.

The obvious truth, that Sorja had not stopped expecting that something good might happen, no matter how long the wait, stirred up a painful loss – that I have come to the edge of my willingness to help where I see things have gone beyond me.   Sorja the Greyhound gave me a few moments of certainty that I knew how to make some creature happy, knew how to be good enough.   All it took, for both of us, was a little cheese.

Show & Tell

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You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any miseries, or any depressions? For after all, you do not know what work these conditions are doing inside you.”  Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Never knowing exactly what I will say, I sit down with a picture and write.  First, I look my exhaustion squarely in the eye, but usually let it slither back to the shadows.  No one wants to read about how tired you are, Brenna.  Then I wonder if I have a story to tell.  This week, in fact, is full of stories, but they are not for telling.  The words and their events swoop past each other like spectres haunting the daylight.  I know what has happened but it has to stay invisible.

So then I pull back further.  This is the view I like, seeing where the edges of what is personal seem to melt into a bigger notion.  Maybe I like that grandiose feeling of having something to say about Life In General.  I can tell you a thing or two, you know.  But sometimes I just need to get far away, to see for myself, “I have been through something.”  And get just a little farther back still, where there is room to wonder, “What’s next?”  And then to find another edge.

Alien Goats

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Its friendly, the way people in San Francisco pile plants around the sidewalk outside their homes.  For one thing, it shows they trust passersby to know the difference between mine and yours.  Since weather is never an obstacle, you may as well let the plants enjoy it, too.  What can go wrong?  Absolutely nothing.

The phantasmagoric black succulent in the picture is not the most eye-popping thing I saw in San Francisco.  The Goats of Daly City, corralled near the rail yard where Bart emerges from the airport, win that award.   I literally did a double-take when livestock came into view as I watched the desolate rail yard rush past my window.  For a moment, I wondered if some homeless knitter was farming alpaca behind her trailer camp, but no…shorter necks, smoother skins, floppier ears…goats!  If you have never gotten to know a goat, I recommend them.  Curious, not needy; interested, not aloof; independent, but they have their reasons.  Exactly the characteristics you want in a loyal, psychologically well adjusted friend.  If you are into docile, forget it.

I do think sidewalk goats would be a poor choice, however.  I wouldn’t trust them beyond the first planter.