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.