THANKFUL FRIDAY

Westside Local posted a picture of my art hanging on their walls, which I in turn shared to my social media places. The prints have been up all through March and I have to make plans to remove them at the end of April. Honestly, with all that is going on, I sort of set this showing out of my mind. I had intended to go into Westside Local for lunch with coworkers, but suddenly it’s April 19th and I don’t understand what happened to time.

Where’d it all go?

I realize there is still time to get there for a lunch or something. April is not over, but coordinating my calendar around everyone else’s calendars is like trying to solve a complicated quantum physics problem. Yesterday, I spent a large part of my morning texting back and forth with Jenn about lunch dates. I finally ended up just sharing my calendar with her. We managed to schedule a lunch day and provided proof to each other that it was a real date because we both put it in our calendars. Everyone is busy with life right now because we are all basically hibernating mammals. Sure, we weren’t sleeping during of the winter months but we were only into minimal effort activities. Now that the sun’s out and the birds are chirping, we’re crawling out from under our layers and setting down our bowls of soup. The salad days are upon us! I mean sort of. I have to cover plants tonight because temps are dropping into the low 30s, but it’s a brief two day cold front and then we’re right back into balmy thunderstorm weather.

Any way. Things are happening and we’re all doing the thing.

I’m super grateful to Westside Local for giving me the opportunity to hang my pictures on their walls. This has been the most chill experience. I didn’t feel rushed to get things prepared. There was zero hassles in hanging photos, which I had to do on my own. I didn’t have to endure another artist reception where I uncomfortably had to talk to people about my art. I haven’t sold anything from this showing, but funny enough I sold a print that is not in this showing, a photo from a recent trip. I do not care that I have not sold anything. Money is not my motivation, though it is a validation. It just feels special to have some of my favorite pictures displayed on walls where complete strangers will see them. Really, that’s all I want to say about it because it still feels super awkward to talk about my art.

With that, I’m off to Des Moines with Josephine as my copilot. We’re going to spend the weekend with Heather where there will be shenanigans, bubbly drinks and beagles. If you are in the Kansas City area and find yourself looking for a nice place for a meal, I suggest you give Westside Local a try. The food is delicious, atmosphere is charming, and the art on the wall isn’t bad.

TELLING STORIES

Tattoo artists and studios were illegal in the state of Oklahoma until 2006. People who wanted safe and legit tattoos went on road trips to the surrounding states to get their permanent ink art. Christian conservative values taught me that tattoos were ‘bad’ or ‘trashy’. It was for sure not a lady like thing to have done to yourself. A tattoo on a female was the same as a short skirt. It labelled you as ‘easy’ or ‘asking for it’. Of course, this didn’t keep me from wanting one or thinking that tattoos were super cool. It just meant my body wouldn’t be seeing one until I was no longer a dependent. Even then, it took me several years of living on my own (with Chris) before I felt brave enough for my first tattoo.

Every tattoo on my body tells you a story of the person I was in that time. At first, I didn’t see it. I sort of discovered the stories of the old tattoos while writing about the new one. A tribal elephant on my ankle tells you a story of an impulsive moment in Vegas, a woman who was discovering her wild side. My Ganesh on my back tells you a story of removing obstacles and moving into a better way of living. The words on my arm are part of my story of managing my way through sewer backups, caring for a dying husband, and then really hard stuff that comes when someone dies like getting the right size coffee can to contain their ashes. “Je suis forte.” It’s the moral of my story, a cross stitch to hang on my body as a constant reminder that if I can do that, I can do anything.

So what story does this new bit of art on my body tell?

It kind of tells the story of my past.

For the first thirty four years of my life, I lived in Oklahoma. I was born there and just like every kid growing up in the rural school system, I know the song from the musical by heart as well as the B.C Clark Jewelry jingle. I know the places they show us on Reservation Dogs. We had a nesting pair of scissor tail flycatchers living in a tree where I grew up. We saw them every year. I pulled wildflowers from the pasture. I collected native plants during my Oklahoma Taxonomy of Vascular Plants course in undergrad. The Indian Paintbrush is my nod to my Oklahoma roots. There are people and places there that I will always love even though for years Chris and I talked of moving from that state. Without Oklahoma I would not have a claim to Chris. We would not have met. His initials are part of the vintage camera in the tattoo. He bought me the first camera and saw a potential in me that I did not see and sometimes still struggle to see. The camera in this tattoo tells a story of who I’ve become; it’s me. I’m the camera.

I have always been the camera.

Later on in the evening after I got the tattoo, Michael was carefully inspecting my arm. I asked even though it was too late “It doesn’t bother you that I have Chris’s initials carved into my arm?” He was adamant in his reply. He said that this tattoo is a work of art with the native Oklahoma flower and the camera. He said “Oh, no. I’m not bothered at all. I don’t belong in that tattoo.” And he’s right. This tattoo is not part of our story and who knows, maybe someday I’ll get a tattoo that tells a story of us. Though for now, this tattoo story feels like an ending.

It feels like enough.

Special thanks to Eric at Fountain City Tattoos for taking my clipart idea and turning into something magnificent.

BANKSYLAND

Melissa had a spare ticket to Banskyland and asked me if I wanted to have a girl’s date. This is something I would have loved to see, but would never have made the effort to buy tickets. So, I hopped up and down and said “Yes, please!” Then we made reservation for fancy dinner and ordered way to much food before driving down to the Westbottoms for the event. The exhibit was held in the Rumely Historic Event space, which we got to hear the history of the building twice as we rode in the in the largest, oldest working elevator in Kansas City. Melissa had purchased VIP tickets which included an audio tour and a free poster. We collected our headphones and made our way to the second level.

This is where things got confusing. We were told to start on the second level, but the tour didn’t match up with the art on the second level. Eventually we figured out how to skip around in the audio tour to match whatever it was we were looking at and then things made more sense. Michael later asked me “How was the exhibit?” and I said “Well, at first it kind of felt like someone had gone to places that had Bansky art on the walls, took photos of them and then printed and framed those photos for us to look at.” Which still feels true. Most of the original stuff was on the second level. Also, Melissa and I were the only ones in the building listening to an audio tour. Everyone else was standing around in groups, talking about art, but not art while holding plastic wine cups. It was a place to go to be seen. The hip thing to do. Melissa and I were the only nerds listening to the hows and whys of each piece of art and there to truly learn and see the art.

Sorry! The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock. - Banksy (original street art)

This was the neon installment in the elevator and the first thing we saw. Melissa read it out loud and then said “Ain’t that the truth.” Melissa’s story is not my story to tell, but she is a paraplegic. I’m sure she felt those neon words more than most. Many people responded to my picture of this piece with a thumbs up and even a sad face because I think many of us can all relate in some way to these words. Losses, divorces, job choices gone wrong, falling into a financial hole that you can’t seem to climb out of. Losing the use of your legs. This is just a minor list that none of us would ever have ordered up for our lives. But my friend Eagle had the best response. He posted a gif of a woman yelling “Improvise”.

This should be tagged onto Banksy’s piece.

For those of us living a lifestyle we did not order, many of us have become pretty dang good at the art of improvisation. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves just doesn’t fit right and we have to order up something else. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves turns out to be the absolute wrong order. We ordered a life that really should have gone to someone else. Not only does it not fit right, it doesn’t feel right. The life my fourteen year old self ordered did not include one that contained love. That order I placed then was all work. College and medical school and nothing outside of that. I am happy that life was out of stock. This right now is not the lifestyle I ordered though. I have had to improvise, continue to improvise, because life is change.

Banksy originally plastered these words over a reproduction of a well-known painting. It was his protest statement against the art market and consumer capitalism.

a rebellion against the great corporations that manage our lives, our forms of consumption, even the space in which we live, through choices that are exclusively aimed at making profit. -Banksy

You wouldn’t know this by just reading the neon quote, particularly if you didn’t know this artist. Moving it to neon and taking away the well-know painting behind the words allows one to take it all out of context. Now those words speak to me as a challenge. Okay, that life you thought you were going to get isn’t going to happen the way you thought it would. What are you going to do about it?

Improvise.

I’m going to improvise and practice contentment with this life.

MY ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND

We wandered into a very neat and tidy little independent bookshop on Granville Island in Vancouver and there was a table covered with classic books. Except, when I picked up one of the books and flipped it open, I discovered a blank page. All of the pages were blank and I knew that I had to have one of these journals disguised as books. I chose a blank copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It has been sitting on my desk ever since our return. That’s not unusual. I often buy a new notebook and then wait for a while before I start writing in the thing. I find the new, clean pages of a notebook to be the most soothing aspect of owning it. I am always hesitant to put ink or pencil lead on any of the pages for fear of messing up the beauty of the page.

Of course, after all this time I never thought of flipping that way of thinking. Instead of messing up the page, I could be adding to the beauty of the page.

I’ve been focusing on where I feel the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when I say them out loud and when I came across this particular journal, my heart leapt with a resounding yes. I had no idea what I would do with it, nor did I have a need for the book. I just knew I wanted it. I do recognize that I am beginning to fall into a recognizable habit of owning journals that never get filled up. I have a stack of notebooks in my cedar chest that only have writing on the first four or five pages, leaving the rest of the books blank. They are Chris’s notebooks. I never go in and read them, but I will never throw them away. Now I have become the person with multiple journals floating around the house. This one contains a story idea. That one is more than half full of yoga classes I prepared for teaching. Let’s not forget the mostly full Fortune Cookie notebook. That one, right now, is the winner. Not only is it only twenty or so pages away from being filled, it is filled with inspiration. Part of returning to our regularly scheduled program around here, includes me getting back into the Fortune Cookie notebook.

I sat down with that notebook on Saturday morning for the first time in a long time, and I didn’t know how to even begin. Then, just as the story really got good to me, I ran out of room on the page. There is a very disciplined side of me that almost refuses to even place a dot of ink in the new journal before I finish the Fortune Cookie notebook. But I have a packet of fine tipped colored markers setting on top of the Wonderland journal and a clear image in my head of drawing fanciful mushrooms and intricate flowers and maybe filling this one up with something other than words.

I am not an artist.

I am an artist.

Cindy’s Adventures in Learning to Be. That’s the true title of this book.

POSER

Saturday, we had some free time before meeting our friend Shruti for lunch. So Michael suggested we pop into Brookside Gallery and Framing and talk to them about frames for some things that we purchased in New Orleans. We spoke with the owner, Sandra, about our needs and while she was working up a cost analysis for us, Michael was browsing around the shop. He noticed some postcard sized photography prints on rack and said “Hey, this is what you should do with some your pictures Cindy.” He looked at Sandra and said “She’s an amazing photographer.” I did not have a response to this, but Sandra enthusiastically told me she’d give me an artist discount on picture frames. Really, Sandra is great. She told it us it would be too expensive to do custom frames for the five 5x7 prints we bought in New Orleans and recommended we go to a craft place like Michael’s. Then she told me to bring in my prints and she would put them up for sale in her shop. I told Sandra that there was an odd shaped piece we’d purchased in New Orleans that I would definitely be bringing her for framing. I thanked her and then we left the shop.

And I threw up.

No…but I was dazed as we walked back to the scooters. I couldn’t wrap my brain around what had just happened. Then we met Shruti and after lunch the three of us went to the Brookside Art Fair. After passing by the third booth of photography, I said out loud “my work is total shit compared to this stuff.” Both Michael and Shruti disagreed, but I couldn’t help but think they were only protesting my statement to make me feel better. Michael and I left the art fair with a lovely whimsical painting of an octopus and I left with a crushed soul and “what am I even doing with my life” mental state. I’m a hack, a pretend hobbyist who got carried away and had business cards made up declaring myself to be a photographer. These people at the art fair, those are real artists. They are willing to spend the money required to display their photos to the public so that the people say “Ooooh” and “Ahhh”. Standing next to them, I am just a cheap, trailer trash substitute.

Then we got home and I had a comment on an Instagram post from Elizabeth saying that she’d love this picture for her wall. I made a mockup of a postcard using one of my Shuttlecock photos and when I showed it to Michael he yelled “WHY ISN’T THE NELSON SELLING THIS POSTCARD!” Then someone else left a comment on a photo on Facebook telling me that I take amazing photos and I don’t know who to believe. All of my followers are friends and family, people I’ve known for most of my life who were already fans. But what if they’re only saying all this to be polite? What if I am really like that person who goes to audition for American Idol who thinks they are an amazing singer, but really can’t carry a tune to save their lives, but you know..in photography form? What if I take my prints in for Sandra to sell and she takes one look at them and tells me the truth of what I have known all along, that I lack talent and my photos are crap?

Vulnerability. It is a pain in the ass.

I ordered a print for Elizabeth today. I will be submitting an order for postcards this week, as well as placing an order for special photography matting. I will have more prints made so that I don’t have to just use the ones from the art showing that never happened. Maybe I’m not a professional or one for big displays, but that doesn’t mean I lack talent. At least, that’s my mantra today.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sparse

8 Likes, 0 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Sparse"

I walked all the way to Los Angeles. Along the way, I passed through isolated towns that consisted of run down diners and two-pump gas stations. Tumbleweeds the size of boulders rolled across the two-lane highway. Sometimes I would spot a roadrunner or jackrabbit. There were several miles where I was followed by a lone coyote. Every time I stopped to drink from my water bottle, he would sit and look off into the distance with an air of indifference. I passed an area of white sand and could see several dune buggies bouncing over the hills and could hear people whooping and hollering as the buggy leaped into the air. I just kept on walking. When I reached the outskirts of L.A., I had to cross an old bridge that was made from just random pieces of wood laid down here and there. I could see nails sticking out of some planks and crumbled edges of plywood. This was not a sturdy bridge, but I stepped out onto the first plank. I proceeded to make my way, creeping along slowely and carefully, sometimes having to leap over missing sections and just having to trust that I was landing on something solid.

But I made it across.

Once I crossed the bridge, I found myself in the most beautiful cemetery. The headstones and memorials were all pieces of art. The largest one that stood out in the middle of the cemetery was a large rounded horse with a large rounded person sitting on top. It looked like a sculpture by Diego Rivera except the person riding the horse was painted up as the most beautifully glorious drag queen with big blond hair and bright blue eyeshadow. I spent hours wandering around this cemetery, gazing at all the different headstones. I eventually made my way back to the center and sat down in front of the Diego Rivera like sculpture. Then I started to weep. It wasn’t that I was sad; I was just overwhelmed by the beauty of it all, the headstones and the people the headstones memorialized. It was all so stunning. I was overwhelmed with how this place honored those that resided there.

I woke up with tears still streaming down my face and thinking that the sight of that cemetery was truly worth crossing that scary bridge, because the walk itself was not a bad time. There was plenty to see as I walked along the highway. Sure, it was a long walk. The weather was unpredictable with hot sunny days and sudden rain storms. The wind blew constantly, swirling up dirt devils, but the landscape was beautiful. The sunrises and sunsets looked like paintings in the sky. Some times I would stop in one of those diners for a meal and I would chat with locals. I would be completely drawn into their stories they had to share about their lives and this place. I greeted every wildlife sighting with the wonder and fascination of a small child. It was truly a joy to be on this trek. Really, the only horrible part of that walk was crossing that bridge into L.A. It was the only time in my dream that I was terrified. My legs shook with each tentative step. My palms were sweaty and my mouth was dry. There were times I thought that I could not do this. I could not make it across this bridge. I was going to fall to my death.

Except, I didn’t.

I know full well what that walk to L.A. represents. I know what the truly horrible part is and I know that there is something truly beautiful and amazing on the other side of the truly horrible. I am thankful for the other side.

30 AMERICANS

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * Aug 26, 2019 at 12:34am UTC

5 Likes, 0 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram

I saw the most important art exhibit that I have probably ever seen. 30 Americans is an exhibit of 30 African American artists, each one telling stories of race, beauty, hate, violence, love…stories of this America. It is an exhibit that encourages the discussion of all of those things. It is an exhibit that is visceral, powerful and poignant. If I had to talk about it with someone, describe my feelings as I walked away from that exhibit, I would not be able to do so with out choking on my emotions. Even now, I struggle with words to describe it. There were moments when I was struck dumb with the beauty of some of the pieces and moments that made me want to crumple to my knees and weep.

Art.

Art is power.

Art is what makes us human.

Without it, we are nothing.

Art has the ability to teach us about the otherness of the other, to feel, to find empathy. That’s what makes this exhibit so important; it makes you feel. Each piece in 30 Americans is a piece that tells a story through that artist’s eye and those stories, the ones told here, they’re stories we all need to hear. Our history classes in my school skimmed over the section on minorities. I say section because that was all that was dedicated to them in my school history books. Sections, that is what the history books should have included. That’s not even enough. Whole books. My art history education wasn’t any better. We learned about the great works of white men. Not black men. Not women. Certainly not black women. That lacking part of my education is unacceptable. Mickalene Thomas, Rashid Johnson, Gary Simmons, Carrie Mae Weems. This is just the short list of artists I should know. It is just the short list of artists that we should all know.

Let’s teach this to kids. Don’t make them wait and hope they discover it on their own or stumble across it in some obscure college class. Let’s teach them about this now.

All of it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Shadows

2 Likes, 0 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Shadows"

I am not sure what I want to say here today. I have many thoughts and opinions, mostly thoughts about the lack of respect we seem to have for each other. At this point, sharing those thoughts just feels like adding to the division I see happening in this country. Instead, I’m going to focus on setting the best example I can be by being respectful to those around me you have different opinions than I have. There are ways of communicating our beliefs and ideas without being hateful or disrespectful. I am entitled to my opinion but I am not entitled to force that opinion on someone else. And of course, facts trump opinions every time. EVERY. TIME. Also, I can be sure to get the whole story before I allow myself to react blindly to a situation I only know pieces about.

The Borens sent me this book called What Really Makes America Great, produced by the Creative Action Network. The Creative Action Network is a collective of artists creating art with a purpose. This community includes artists responsible for the various protest posters we have seen in the last three years. It is art with a message, a reminder that we can be better, that we are better. This book is a compilation of art about the things about this country that make us truly lovely. It covers everything from agriculture, to small businesses, to taco trucks and to believing that anything is possible. This is the kind of book that belongs in every household. It is the kind of book that you should read a passage from as you all gather around the table for your evening meal. When you feel like there is no hope of ever getting rid of the hate and racism that is dividing this country, you should open this book to remind yourself of the things in this country that are great, like art and public libraries and Hip Hop.

I grateful for the thoughtfulness of this gift. I am grateful for the people who sent it. I am grateful for the reminder of the beauty that exists in this country.

RECOGNITION

Groot?

14 Likes, 4 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Groot?"

The other night, I was sitting on the couch reading when I heard a clackity clack sound coming from the kitchen. It was one of those rare evenings when I had the house to myself. In an effort to soak up every last drop of the last days of their summer, Michael had taken the Cabbage to Ocean's of Fun with plans on closing the joint. So it was just me and dog and sometimes the cat and now this clackity clack sound. Side note: I recently read a book about a family living in a sort of dooms day shelter. The youngest boy had been born in the shelter and had no idea what the above world was like. His boogy man was called the cricket man, part man with a cricket body. The cricket man would come and take bad children who were not in their beds when they were supposed to be. If I had not finished the book and discovered the reality of the cricket man, the clackity clack in the kitchen would have freaked me the f out. 

The sound was from a very large leaf hopper who had somehow managed to wind up in our kitchen. I finagled a canning jar out of a cabinet and trapped him inside the jar so I could set him free outside. Once he was free from the jar, he flew up and away. I watched him, fascinated by the shape of him and the way he moved in a mechanical way. It is not often I have come across a leaf hopper of that size. He was at least the length of the palm of my hand and brilliant green. His body was a perfect mimic of a leaf. I never stopped to grab my camera and take any pictures of him. It was only later when I thought "huh...maybe I should have taken some pictures." I shrugged the thought off because I still have a bad taste in my mouth from editing the pictures I took while we were in Oregon. 

I took some really crappy pictures with my Nikon while we were in Oregon. I'm talking really bad pictures. F-stop and aperture mistakes galore. Everything is either too bright or too dark. Focal points are weird because I relied on the autofocus. They're all just really shitty. I look at them and say to myself "Cindy, who the heck do you think you're trying to be? You think you can take pictures? That's hilarious." I know why my pictures turned out terrible. Frankly, it was because of drugs, but that's not a story for here. Even though I know why the pictures are bad, I still have not been all that inspired to pick up my camera or consider artistic endeavors. It is kind of like falling off my bike and instead of my usual 'get right back on' attitude, I am hesitant to go for another bike ride. For some time now, Micheal has been urging me to do some sort of art showing in a restaurant or coffee house. He talks about it a lot, enough for me to maybe consider actually doing it. I've gone as far as changing this website and adding a gallery of a few photos. That's about it.

Honestly the whole idea of it really makes me want to vomit. Posting my images here and on Instagram are way different from hanging actual prints in a public space for strangers to look at judge with their judgy eyes. I have never ever considered the possibility of doing an art showing mostly because I still struggle with this concept that I might be some kind of artist. I don't see that I am doing anything that someone else couldn't do with a camera. There's a lot of vulnerability there and a lot of questioning of how thick is my skin. There is a lot of changes in my mindset and my views on who I am, that I am more than I think of myself. The other day when we were at IKEA, I saw a photo enlarged to poster size, framed in a simple frame and I thought "wouldn't that one picture I took look nice displayed like that?" So while I'm walking around queasy over the idea of actually doing an art showing, I am at least thinking of what photos to use and how to display them. 

The next steps are crooked, wonky ones because I have no idea how to go about finding a venue or marketing myself. I'm sure I need some sort of business card and a portfolio that is not on my phone. The most difficult step of all will be believing enough in my work to expect a business to want to display it for me. We'll see. Maybe by January you all will receive an invitation to an art opening.