Self Portraits

I have gotten in the habit of painting a self portrait every couple of years.  I try to think of it as an exercise in self reflection.  But sometimes I think I must not have a very good mind/body connection, because when I am working with an image of myself, I really don't identify with it very much.  The process becomes almost one of illustrating abstract shapes and is therefore quite relaxing when I can get really lost in it.

Note:  I had some technical difficulties when uploading the images, so these images are not in the order I wanted them to be.  The first one I painted is the one that is predominantly pink.  The next one is the one with the doorknob.  The third one is the mostly black and white one.  And the most recent one is directly below.

Self Reflection

This self portrait was inspired by my Macbook camera and its special effects.  The dots in this one are much smaller than the ones I usually work with and are cut from magazines with a hole punch.  The dimensions are 24"x24".

Heliotrope 

(from the collection of Donna Maberry)

The frame is made of photographic transfers from photos of me taken at the same time as the one I used to paint the portrait.  The owner of this one swears that the eyes follow her.  The size of this one is about 40"x42".

Portrait of the Artist as a Forty Year Old Woman 

(from the collection of Michael and Catherine Lenz)

This is my first self portrait and one of my very first "dot" paintings.  It measures 42"x42".

Self Portal 

Yes, this was painted when my hair still had some pigment, and yes, that is a door knob on it.  This painting measures about 30"x40".

I married a linebacker...

Notice my hair is a little longer on this avatar...

And for those of you who don't remember, it was Rick Larkin who always said this on the morning announcements.

I'm not sure what it is about the first few days of school when we start back each year, but my feet hurt so bad, I am almost in tears.  I can be on my feet for hours at a stretch when  I am painting and never have this problem.  I think somehow the tension and stress of that first week back on campus goes right to my foundation!

I talked to my grandson today and was reminded that my situation is not so different from that of my students.  I asked Dave if he had a nice teacher (and he assured me that he does) and he asked me if I had nice kids.  I told him that I do, but then I really thought about what he was asking and realized how important to all of us it is that those we are scheduled to be with for 45 minutes at a time are "nice."  I have been told over the years that students don't "care how much you know" until they "know how much you care."  Well, let me tell you, teachers can teach anything to students who are nice.  They will jump through whatever hoops are placed in their paths to make their students successful.  Of course, we all know that our kids bring a lot of baggage to school with them, and maybe some of that stuff makes it really difficult for them to be nice.  So I am reminded how important it is for me to reach those students.  How vital it is for me to be sane and stable for them, even when my feet hurt.

Thanks to all of my student who have been so kind the past two days.  And please be patient with me until I get my legs under me again.  We are going to have an exceptional year.

I also want to thank the football boys who asked me today if I would wear their jerseys on Friday.  You have no idea what it means to a teacher to be honored that way.  I can only wear one jersey each week, but I will have all of you in my heart as you go onto the field Friday night. After all, as I always say, when I write my autobiography, I will title it, "I Married a Linebacker!"

A Day in Twelve Pieces

The painting above is because I am missing my Dave.  The poem below is an experiment in a day's worth of writing.

A DAY IN TWELVE PIECES

6:23 a.m.  From the milk-giving tree

First milk, then butter, then the sun and the moon, then the witch waves her wand, hazel wand and brings luck to the lovers.  These are models from life.  These are models.  From life.  These are… ah, warm elixir of love.  There is no time to start with the small things.

8:45 a.m. Marginal language

Between the in breath and the out, the realization and the smile, a message slumbers revolving around this refusal to be reduced.  Parry, parry, parry, unable to thrust--beyond the necessity for needlework, what do women forgive?  Unable to trust, almost lost in translation, they need music in their hands and dialogue body to body.

9:50 a.m. Small savior

Scantily dressed in worn shorts and striped shirt, I saw you bow ceremoniously to the unseen.  In front of a suitable backdrop, a single peach hangs from an almost barren tree, careful to cling just enough without appearing needy.  “Are you pleased to be the last peach?  Will you die for the answers?  What will the end be like after all?”

10:00 a.m. Further the modern

Chock full and aching, I would like to talk of other matters.

11:40 a.m. Precarious and uncertain

I blend colors to make brown, but the light changes, and the red shows through.

2:00 p.m. Loquacious Woman

Behind lacy incidentals and boiled credentials, she cracks nuts with her teeth to boot.

 

3:19 p.m. Red on black

Observe these grit-tempered wares impressed with fingernails… Probably made by a pupil, or perhaps a poetess occasionally employed.

 

5:50 p.m. Anticipating Carravagio

Ecstatic dancers and half-seated figures… “In this position?” you may ask as I take off my mask.  You may ask, or you may say, “Bravo!”

5:53 p.m. Utterly indeterminate

Perhaps love is a cliché, but if you can get an actor Meisner has trained…

 

5:54 p.m. Lady of light

When the water drips from my hair, I would be a streambed.  When I look in the mirror, I would have a silver back.  When steam rises from my legs, I would be the cool above the tub.  Where there is friction, you are the vine joining earth and sky.  When you smile at me, I shine beauty above the waterline.  If you touch me, I will shatter into a million shining droplets of deception.

 

7:36 p.m. Too far gone by Tuesday

Colors can push you over the edge, and I really prefer the sketchiness of the pencil sound, the way the round, undefined housing shelters me from the lead.  I prefer to live with the promise of eras ability, so ironically decisive, yet I still cross things out (out of habit).  You must realize that even this writing is not without some danger.  The friction can become tiresome, can become needy, can become divisive, and I might get caught up in the reflection of that shiny metal piece that ties eraser to wood, that little connector so needlessly intricate and cold.

 

9:20 p.m. Double bind

The sun, the moon and the earth have aligned themselves but the belt hangs low on the left and no adhesive holds this image aloft.  “Here I could love you,” you say as we lie in the grass, but my arms have fallen asleep and machine noise loads the sky.  Still, you sing.  If I could hear you, such tunes might move me.  If I could lather away these fumes, I would breathe you in that you might soothe me, but the city is deep, and no bridges cross the mystery.

 

 

Burning Away the Blues

With school starting back, this painting seemed like an appropriate image to share.  And I guess the poem I have chosen to include today, which is one of my older ones, could be considered a back to nature piece.

Then, if you haven't already, be sure to scroll down to my previous post and click the play button.  I made this avatar at www.voki.com.  I have a lot of fun using my "talking head" to tell my students things for which I don't want to take responsibility.  I already have one waiting to tell them about the upcoming test on their summer reading...

BURNING AWAY THE BLUES

The best cure

is to sit bare-assed

on the porch

 

before the reds take over,

before the yellows burn away

the fog from dependable fence lines.

 

As the bottom of your coffee cup rises

wet and shimmering like a full moon in degrees,

learn the secrets of the morning…

and hope the neighbors understand.