IGY and Me

 IGY stands for International Geophysical Year (1957-1958). In reality it lasted 18 months but that's bureaucratic thinking. I've just finished six 12 x 24 inch-acrylic marker and paint pieces for a show in January. It is the last show I will have. (This is a favor for the gallery curator.) I spent a couple of months trying to figure out the subject, medium, number of pieces, old or new and came organically with these pieces. It was going to be 7 but when I finished the 6th I knew I was done. All drawing was freehand and all images are original to my mind. 

My previous post is about the impact that IGY had on me and these are the comic book illustrations I created in part to tell a child's story and in part to heal. I must add that, although I have two degrees in studio art, I, like all artists am self-taught and part of my early education was comic books and the Clairol shampoo ads in women's magazines.  That's how we learn, by copying from life and print images. Many artists perfected their crafts by taking their easels to museums and copying the old masters.

As a little girl I always had No.2 pencils, a sharpener and crayons and paper. My parents understood. I was an artist. One day my third-grade teacher had me do a chalk mural on the spare black board of houses around the world. She commented that she wished I was as smart as I was good at art. She meant no harm though I was hurt. That's because the pressure was on for teachers to churn out scientists, mathematicians, engineers and doctors. The arts and music suffered. Those teachers fought for the arts but I don't think any of the kids, certainly not me, ever knew. I only really understood what was happening in retrospect. Programs were dropped. It's a miracle they still had band although I secretly believed they only kept band going to rally around the sports teams because there is real money in school sports. 

Back to mid 20th century history. The Space Race was on and we couldn't let the Russians beat us. Sputnik happened. Laika happened (first dog in space and it still makes me sad). Mandatory Science Fair Projects happened. I did a display of the kinds of clouds we saw in New Jersey. The principle only spoke with the kids who did "real" science. I saw it. This was the last time I was forced to do this and I was never in a science fair again. I knew what they wanted and I tried to deliver but that's not where my 8-year-old brain lived. 

Here's a sort of self portrait of me as a child using crayons to draw a picture of Blue Macaws. 

This painting is obviously about turning STEM into STEAM. Yes, the technos reared their ugly heads again but art educators fought back and made them put the A in STEM to make STEAM.  I get all the fun there is in creating computer games and computer art and animation. It's something I wanted to do but I was too early for this. I studied programming. Just enough to understand it and did better than the non-art students. Creative minds adapt really well. Computers are great tools and I'm certain that even if I had been offered more art programs I would have tried my hand with computer technology. It's just another medium with a keyboard instead of a pencil. Ive used PowerPoint to create animated story books. The animation was very simple but I had fun. 

This just came to me as I was creating a portrait of a cattle egret. In my story, this is an early warning signal. Note the weed taking hold in the rubble of a street and the lovely egret checking it out. Egrets and herons are so cool. They just move around gracefully totally ignoring what man has built. In this painting, the egret is admiring the flower, not the cracked pavement. The caution tape is for the humans. Wildlife just ignore it and go on being who they are. Life is simple.

This is the late fifties and early sixties. While the world was on the verge or war and blasting off into space, or at least trying to, I and other kids were just trying to be kids. Even the sci fi movies were aimed at us. I fantasized about become a scientist or going off into space. Lots of us did. The movies about artists and musicians were made for adults. They weren't shown at Saturday morning matinees. That was a great time to be a kid though. We were allowed to have adventures and explore our neighborhoods and play make believe so that grown up reality stayed in another room. We knew what was going on from the evening news and listening to our parents. On the surface we believed we would be safe because they told us we would be. We buried the fears as deeply as we could without even realizing it.

I call this the Great Shift. In this image however, I've made this seem like a scene from a movie where all of the art kids give up their instruments and art supplies and notebooks to go into the science lab and be converted into science kids. Take a look at the shadows to see what we left behind. Now, they didn't really make us give up our art supplies and instruments; in retrospect it just felt like it.

When I was a kid, I lived in a great middleclass neighborhood where just about everyone was a first- time home buyer.  This was the only home my parents ever owned. It was the late fifties and my friends and I were all white. Although we didn't know what segregation meant yet, we were segregated. We were Irish, Polish, Italian, Swedish, German, and more. We were Catholic, Protestant and Jewish. Some  went to parochial schools and some public. But after school we played. On Saturdays we headed to the closest corner candy store to buy a comic and candy. Then we headed home and sat on someone's stoop reading comics and talking about the superhero's exploits. We were friends. We were innocent. There were four boys and one girl. Me. Everyone else in my neighborhood was older or younger than us so I was a Tomboy. This was my world.

Anyway, about this painting. We five sat on a porch imagining ourselves as superheroes. There I am with the golden J on my chest flying off on an adventure. And, in the forefront all my crayons because, while this was my first book group, this was my first art school. The real excitement in my life was receiving the 64 crayon set from Crayola. That was golden. My parents knew their kids. Too bad the Board of Ed didn't.

Therapy would have been faster

 It's incredible to me that it took me 50 years of spiritual work to understand what went off, not wrong, but a different direction than I believe should have been. I made wrong choices in my childhood; was led astray by the people I trusted (not my family) in the schools; the movies directed towards children; even my beloved comic books. I was an artist; I had an artist's soul; I had been drawing since I could hold a pencil. I always understood composition. Now that didn't necessarily mean that I would be a fine artist. It just meant that the arts were supposed to be part of my destiny and in fact that has been the case, just not the way I had hoped.

I bought into the fantasies of the sciences and studied everything; math, physics, biology, geosciences, chemistry. When I went to college the first time I majored in biology. I dropped out because of money and went on to become a lab tech through a one year program. I worked at it for a couple of years but moved to Florida where I couldn't be licensed. I was a good technician but I would never be a scientist although I could have been a researcher so I knew it so pursuing degrees in the sciences wasn't worth it. I kept drawing; experimenting; always the amateur. But my family saw me as an artist from childhood. They had greater insight than the educational system of New Jersey. Continuing on with my search for a career and  at some point, after many jobs in banking and other businesses I returned to college. I majored in art. Finally. I studied everything: painting,  life drawing, all the printmaking there was, sculpting, art history, contemporary history, cartooning, illustrating, fiber arts, ceramics and more. I experimented with various media. I received two degrees; was a TA and then, unable to find work (not ready to set up a studio because I was still not skilled enough in my mind) and absolutely no interest in commercial art. Cartooning was a  possibility. A friend and I tried a couple of tims to start our own magazine but ...So, I went to library school. I like research. I like finding answers. I liked helping people.  I have been a librarian since 1986. I'm good at it; always have been. And over the course of the first few years I stopped my art work.

In time I began drawing with alcohol ink pens creating pet portraits and writing comic books and graphic novels that were never published. Later, after my second retirement (the first had been to take care of my mother) from a library in Georgia, I began teaching and sharing my art on YouTube. I worked on stretching my style; using a variety of media new and old to me. When I took down the page I had over 2,000 subscribers. But Covid and several surgeries and that good old stand-by, autoimmune diseases, took their toll and over the past two years I have accepted that my hand is lost; that I will never be able to get back let alone better and it's all sapped my imagination. I would never be the fine artist I had aspired to be. I had held out hope. I mean Grandma Moses was way older than me. Still, I knew it wasn't going to happen. Now I just don't care to pick up a brush let alone a pencil. Truth be told, if I had gone into therapy decades ago I would have arrived here much  more quickly but I didn't realized I had a problem. Well, that's not fair. I didn't realize that therapy could help me so I kept searching for the lost parts of my soul.

So, here I am, still doing spiritual work; still trying to put myself where I should have been at this stage of my life if my world had been different; still with a need to create so I chose to write. Well, I've been writing a blog for years. It's about my art. But now, there's a shift. I'm not sure what I'm writing about. I've been studying essay writing. I'm not looking forward to writing the great American novel. I don't care to write novels of nonfiction tomes at all. But I enjoy the art of essay writing. I just don't quite have my subject yet. But during my journeys with the Holy Spirit and guides I came to realize that I was never meant to be a fine artist. Possibly an art restorer or a critic or a curator or a teacher. I'm still drawing. Well i know i still want to draw but i dont want to share anymore. But, I have to accept the fact that the career I fought all of my life until YouTube, teacher is probably my destiny. As a TA I taught college classes and they were fun but I was never able to get to teach professionally, not even as an adjunct. Well, I don't know that I will do any teaching on YouTube again. Certainly I will never do art demonstrations again. I was thinking more along the line of Art History rather than technique. I've always enjoyed learning about the artists, the movements, etc. And looking at paintings; seeing art; helping others to see art. 

Now I realize that many of you may think I'm over thinking my life, the effect of IGY (International Geophysical Year 1957-58) on my life and my education, I wish to share that I was not the only person my age (30s) returning to school to study art. We had all taken circuitous routes to get to where we were. Perhaps some of you are asking some of the same questions. A fellow art student kept talking about finding his truth in his art. I didn't understand at the time but I do now. 

Pushing 80

 Except for preparing art for an upcoming exhibit I promised I would do, I'm not creating art for show or share. I've deleted my YouTube content and I feel lighter. No more stressing about keeping up the content or dealing with subscribers. I had 2,100 when I closed the account.  I've struggled with this decision for the better part of a year as my artistic gifts changed, morphed, diminished and regrew. After this show it's only for me. I don't have to share with anyone. I don't have to keep it up. I've actually been thinking about eliminated all social media but my family and friends, those I actually know, are there and that's how we share photos although all of the ads and requests to follow are irritating.  I've also deleted my Instagram Account and Substack. 

It's time to unload the unnecessary from my life. I'm finally getting back some energy and I don't need to drag around imaginary obligations. Stay tuned for my January 2027 post. Talk about fresh starts. I will be cleaning house. But that's on the back burner while I create pan pastels paintings on canvas. 

I'm really just sharing this so you know, if you follow me, that I'm still writing and intend to continue to write and study the art of the essay and figure out what I'm writing about. I already have my next topic in mind; my next essay is writing itself. 

Andy, the first dog I wasn't afraid of.

 

I have been afraid of animals since I was 2 years old. The incident that brought on this fear involved a cat at a motel in Houston, Texas. I had just turned 2. We were leaving California and heading for Massachusetts but that's another story. 

Cats were the worst, a phobia although a past friend found testing me worth losing our friendship over, that plagued me until a few years ago. I tried to hold in that fear but there were times I just couldn't. Still, another story. 

When I was 9 or so, a neighbor found out I was afraid of dogs and she just couldn't tolerate that so she helped me to at least learn that touching a dog wouldn't literally kill me.  She invited me into her house to visit with her dog, a female as I recall. We sat with her dog, its back to us and she guided my hand to her (the dogs) back. The dog did nothing. I continued to pet her for a few minutes. I was still afraid but not of this dog. So it was and still is that I make friends one dog at a time letting them come to me. Except of course for the River Rats (a dog pack) but that's another story. 

We had friends who owned a farm in Tewksbury, Mass. where they raised pigs, kept chickens and always had dogs. One day, when I was about 6, I sat in a metal lawn chair on the back porch enjoying the sunlight and the beautiful surroundings. While I was taking it all in their Collie puppy, Lassie,  came running to me and out of no where it's paws were on my left hand and I jumped up and ran into the house. The dogs were rarely in the house. We visited Sonja and Bror and Stevie most summers, sometimes holidays and they would visit us. I guess it was the summer after I met my neighbor's dog that I was less apprehensive with the farm dogs but they were still high energy and funny. They didn't stop anyone from going in but they would surround anyone, barking anxiously when anyone tried to leave the house before the Berg's came out. One of the dogs, a Dalmation named Andy, was older and allowed in the house because of his age. I would sit with him and he let me pet him, never moving, never making a sound. I wanted to take him home to live with us. Everyone in the family knew about my fear and I suppose they were encouraged by my closeness to this dog. Maybe I was growing out of  it. Then I told them I wanted Andy to come home with us. My parents and Sonja were really supportive, kind, gentle in denying me my wish. Sonja explained that Andy was old and sick and he cried during the night because of his pain. My parents said that he wouldn't be able  to walk up the stairs to the house or my bedroom. He would have to sleep in the ground floor basement. He would be lonely. At some point I understood that I wasn't going to bring Andy home and it was best for him. It never occured to me that I wanted to take away someone's dog. While I might joke about that now, I would never seriouslly suggest taking away someone's pet. But I was 9. Andy wasn't there the next summer. No one had to say anything. 

Andy was the first dog I wasn't afraid of. Over time my mother and family members got dogs but I didn't get my first dog until I was 62. He as a gift from G-d. He was Renard.

I don't think of Andy often but from time to time I see a photo of a Dalmation and I remember. I painted this portrait in 2019 from a photo of a senior Dalmation with blue eyes, just like Andy. 

Feeling different

 

I don't remember when exactly it struck me that somehow my immigrant mother knew what her children needed to have in their new schools. We always had everything we needed, extra socks for gym class, oil cloth for art class, paper covers for our books, valentine cards for our classroom exchange and end of the year gifts for our teachers. We never talked about it. I guess there were notes sent home to all of the households and my older brother and sister had been through these things first as immigrants in new schools. And I wasn't the only one. Other of my classmates were the children of immigrants. Not many, but enough to know we weren't alone. My mother came to class visits. My father went to visit teachers if there were problems. Never with me or Jeannie but with Rose and Gunnar. It was always to do with learning and grades; never behavior. While there was respect for the teachers, my father insisted in understanding both sides and would argued successfully on his children's behalf. 

I remember when I was in the 4^th or 5^th grade, parents visited during our reading session. We were divided into sections by ability and 3 or 4 our us were at a round table at the front of the classroom. The parents sat in the back and watching and listening. When I got home my mother asked me why I was at a different table. Had I been talking? Oh no. I sit there during reading because I was a good reader. One of the best readers. Okay. my report card reflected my skill in reading. She smiled.

But as she got older, she attended fewer programs. I don't know why. Maybe she was tired. My parents didn't attend the Freshman program. I was one of the students chosen to participate in the Indian Clubs demo. There weren't any programs after that. I was part of the Polish Culture club but they never attended those programs. They weren't Polish so I guess they didn't think it was important. I never worried about it. I never expected it. I do remember my high school graduation; mid June in New Jersey; I looked up into the stands and saw my mother and father standing to leave the ceremony before my name had been called. Yeah. No hurt feeling just. Yeah. When I got home my mother told me she just couldn't take the heat. I didn't even ask. She just told me they had left early. 

I was on my own at school. Well, I knew if anything happened they would come. I knew that they would stand up for me. But I also knew they somehow expected me to be in control; organized. 

I don't think it was any different for Jeannie. Jeannie had a speech problem in early grade school and went to speech therapy classes but she never got into trouble in school.  Neither did my older sister or brother. I'm not saying we didn't fight with each other or disobey but there was never any trouble involving neighbors or the school. We were normal kids. But I always felt we weren't. Looking back now I realize that no one had a normal childhood. We had all of our needs met. Even at our poorest, and we had been poor, we were clean and well fed and looked after. My mother was always at home for us. My father came home after work and on weekends we would go as a family to the park, Lincoln Park in Jersey City or Battery Park in NYC. We were always dressed up in our Sunday best although we didn't go to church very often. We were always loved. 

As I was entereing 6th grade we moved to Newark, N.J. No happy memories there. Lots of hate from the black population in the preriot years that took me to my 50s to deal with. They liked the apartment and it was practically on top of the grammar school. That's where I met my oldest friend, Yim Yi and her sister Yim Wah. Yim lived in the projects that separated me from the junior high school we would be attending. Well, my parents were prejudiced so I couldn't have black friends. Most of the kids were okay but there were some black kids who just flat out hated me and other whitie kids for being white. Not long ago, my sister Jean told me that she worried about me going to the junior high school because I wasn't safe. She wanted us to move so I would be safe. We did move before I the summer of 9th grade but not for my safety; for Jean's safety because they were afraid she wouldn't keep quiet with the black kids. They were sure she would be beaten up for speaking up. I told Jean this and explained that I handled the kids who tried to bully me and shake me down because I responded without fear. I just knew what to say. They would leave me alone. Still, I was glad we moved. I made great friends in Bayonne. I felt different. I still feel different.

There were many moves. Many jobs. I finally returned to New Jersey and to college. My parents proudly attended that graduation. It was June but it was inside. My father was filled with joy and pride. I was the first and only child to graduate from college.