tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80577225414346532712024-02-20T11:45:33.336-05:00a penchant for pretty wordsA 20-something's exploration
of life, love, the pursuit of happiness, and art.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-28704397376690873192011-02-24T22:47:00.011-05:002011-03-03T14:47:03.621-05:00A Thousand MissesFor the first time since I’d moved to West Virginia, two dramatically different things began to happen. My apprehension towards the intentions of strangers began to dissolve and I made eye contact at the grocery store. Although accidental, furtive glances made way for smiles and a little less of my East-coast indifference. I also started applying for jobs in Huntington, reaching out to every contact at the University that might produce some kind of employment. While these contacts proved fruitless, I caught myself wanting friends, wanting employment, resolving (if not quite wanting) to create a life for myself here. <br /><br />Although accepting and supportive of my boyfriend's Catholic views, the strict stance on cohabitation before vows erected itself like a wall between us and any future plans we had dreamed of. I pleaded and asserted on the phone from my air mattress in the basement. He denied, steadfastly resolute. <br /><br />Following my declarations that "this was the one" and that I wanted a life and a family, Dad offered to pack me up and ship me off to a flat in New York. The offer seemed less and less appealing as reality dawned. I would struggle to pay rent on an overpriced shithole in the city hours from a boyfriend that would make absurd excuses to visit but never stay--lest his parents disapprove. I would not have the family or life that I wanted in New York. <br /><br />The Catholics I'd dated had a nasty habit of not wanting to admit to their parents just how close we were and where they lay their heads at night. After our first night together with one of the more memorable mistakes I made, I watched as the boy I cared for sat on the edge of my bed pulling on his socks. He dressed himself hastily as I drew the covers around myself. Not wanting to show my rising panic, I posed a simple and obvious question as calmly as I could. <br /><br />"Where are you going?", I asked. <br />"Confession." <br /><br />While among the more ridiculous and cliched, his was not the only lesson. <br /><br />There was the "You're a great girl, but I feel nothing for you" guy, whose arms bore railroad track burn marks from desperate acts and his Teretts that I had tried to understand. <br /><br />There was the off-off again first love who called every few months just to hear the sound of my voice--the only girl he ever felt about in that way you hope someone will one day feel about you. He endeavored to deserve me until I was twenty when he loved me and moved to Maine in the morning. Our relationship was punctuated by silence while others I went on to have were filler between their breakups, my breakups, and hiccups generally faced by youth with seemingly endless choices. <br /><br />There was the one who said I gave too much--much more of myself than anyone ever should give another person; the one who chose an end over continuation just because he could, and another who would have loved me given the chance or not. He brought me snow from upstate in a coffee cup for Christmas and hardly slept beside me on the couch for our closeness.<br /><br />It was one near-hit for a thousand misses. The Catholic had been the most memorable. So really it had been my fault that when the second rosary was hung with care around my bedpost on the silver chain I'd procured for it and his parents instructed that while we spent every waking moment together, the sanctity of marital acts was respected--I should have known. There was no future for Tommy with a girl marred by divorce, a borderline parent, and an intellect free from religion.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-10106019328405756492011-02-24T21:02:00.007-05:002011-03-03T11:44:40.171-05:00In the weeks following my father's return I accompanied him on regular trips to Lowe’s and Sam’s Club--covert missions for pink bundles of insulation and ten pound bags of mesquite chicken precooked for convenience. We settled into an easy routine of attic insulation work in the morning before temperatures rose to blistering and repainting doors to the house in the afternoon--scattered with intermittent trips to the office to submit job applications. <br /><br />We stuffed the attic with insulation from second floor closets--rigging batt-sandwiches of wooden slats and clamps even MacGyver would envy--and satisfied our mutual thirst for company over dinner in the pink retro fabulous kitchen that had escaped recent renovation attempts.<br /><br />Tacked to Dad’s refrigerator was a typed list of “Short-Term and Long-Term House Projects”, each with their own specific date range for completion. This list bore additional tick marks as the weeks passed and I added further tasks to their ranks, desperate for something to do. <br /> <br />Each day I unpacked an article from the heap of silk-screens, packages of prints, and inescapable remnants of life I’d amassed in the corner of the basement. I only unpacked impersonal things, the first a red mosaic mirror--purchased from several years ago from IKEA and rarely used in the dim pull-lights. I had never cared very much for it after our shopping trip to Elizabeth, but I had hung it on the wall in my childhood room as a testament to my developing taste in home-decorating trends. <br /><br />This past January, I watched my boyfriend wrap the mirror in bubble wrap, on what would be my last trip to New Jersey. Sea foam green bubble wrap. I’d always been told it was ugly, but I had watched him carefully wrap, fold, and tape the bubble wrap around its edges with an intensity of care and concern for its protection that I’d wished he had shown me. Hired men entered the room bowing their heads apologetically, removing a single dresser on my mother’s command from the door way. I had confronted her on the landing, hands clasped to my tear-streaked face, and I asked to be allowed the courtesy of packaging and removing my own things from the house. It wasn’t as much asking as it was shamelessly begging through choked pathetic sobs to be acknowledged. Her eyes carefully lowered she stepped right, left, right again to move down the stairs, escaping our little dance and my plea for dignity.<br /><br />It wasn’t the act of being forcibly removed from the house by a parental tour-de-force who avoided all eye contact I found merciless--but that it was in front of an audience and at the hands of strange men who patted me on the shoulder and told me that it “had to happen today”. She’d only paid them for a few hours that morning and though I’d also expressed an interest in keeping the white Ikea chair and burgundy foot stool that sat in the corner beneath the matching mirror; they extracted only the dresser from my Tetris floor of cardboard boxes and left the room. I hardly saw them. <br /><br />Tommy, handed me the mirror, now coated in a solid shell of clear packing tape with a smile. “Here,” he said “this should be safe now, don’t you think?” <br /><br />We’d intended to stay the night, pack in the morning and move everything into a storage facility a few towns away. It had been a simple plan. I swept the hardwood floor. I comforted myself with the sense of decency I showed in the manner in which my room was left. I may have been kicked out but the floors were swept and unwanted knickknacks dug from closet depths deposited in cardboard boxes in the center of the room--the weight and contents of each deemed easily disposable. <br /><br />Everyone had left--my sister and her boyfriend Waldy escorted by the police my mother called citing domestic threats of violence, my Aunt Ginny desperate about the fragile nature of my mother’s health who had driven two hours to come to her rescue, and our family friend Chris who’d acted as a mediator of sorts and removed my mother from the house while I pulled myself together on the upstairs bathroom floor. My mother didn’t return to the house until we’d hit the Garden State Parkway on ramp heading north. The mirror survived the snowy drive back to campus in the trunk of Tommy’s ‘85 Oldsmobile though many more valuable things did not. <br /><br /><br />I extracted the mirror from the bubble wrap and placed it next to the pictures of graduation Tina had sent me on an antique sideboard I tentatively claimed as a dresser. I opened my suitcase at its foot and arranged a pair of black pumps on the single shelf. These small gestures of settling in were almost too much for my father, who deemed the archaic oak as being far too fragile and valuable to bear my jars of powder make up and contact lens case. “Please don’t let anything mar the surface”, he said. I stashed my eye drops back into my red suitcase and told him I’d keep that in mind. <br /><br />We constructed a closet from a scrapped pipe and white closet organizers that hung from the rafters in the basement 8 inches higher than useful--Dad called it “Appalachian Ingenuity”. At night I compulsively checked the doors, mistaking the dangling forms for misshapen ghosts who’d taken their grave situation into their own hands. Post-mortem suicide didn’t seem like viable option for anything other than my interview suit and college party dresses that lacked company and occasion worth celebrating, but I began to hang my day dreams of home among them.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-1426858391998405322010-08-30T16:21:00.009-04:002011-03-03T11:43:30.165-05:00When I moved in with him at the age of twenty-three, my father and I started what would certainly have been a typical father-daughter relationship had we lived together while I was enrolled in high school. He gave me a key to the house that I attached to my koala key chain, cautioned me against speaking to strangers, and spoke to me nightly about the dangers of falling into the “wrong crowd”. While for me, the “wrong crowd” was comprised of right-wing bigots, homophobes, and any other human being not devoted to the betterment of mankind; for my father, it meant a group of seemingly kindred spirits who would undoubtedly win my naïve affection and then case the house for valuables they could sell for drugs. <br /><br />Twice burned by such individuals who robbed him more of his sense of security and faith in humanity, I could hardly blame him when, as he packed his car for a weekend trip, he left me with strict instructions not to let any man, woman, or child into the house while he was gone. Lost dogs, three-alarm fires, and car-wrecks be damned; I would send them on their way or calm any wayward traveler through my side of the keyhole until the paramedics arrived. Even the mailman, with whom I was now on a first-name basis, was not to be trusted. <br /><br />As Dad’s Subaru disappeared around the corner, I closed the front door and slid down the other side to the floor despairing in the knowledge that when his car crossed the border, there wouldn’t be a single human being I knew in West Virginia. <br /><br /><br />I'd always thought that there came a time in everyone's life, where you would be forced to learn to appreciate your own company--to respect and admire the voice of the narrator and the clarity they brought to what you hoped would become a movie script ending to your life. <br /><br />Commanding correction from the rim of a megaphone, my narrator interrupts the resounding stillness and peace of laundry and dishes with recaps of missed opportunities and half-finished conversations that have long since ended. Never have I been forced to address the obsessive, condescending prattle that continually picks apart my dreams, my most basic human interactions, and the cowlick that splits bangs across my forehead with such vigor as during those four days in the empty house.<br /><br />I plugged my ears with "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" and ran vigorously on the treadmill in the basement. Excessive and obsessive as are most of my pursuits when indulged in with conviction, I resolved to run in the upcoming marathon in town on November 7th. Lack of credentials aside, I would achieve my athletic potential at the expense of my love-handles and hips.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-74713264031857626462010-08-26T13:57:00.002-04:002010-08-26T13:57:00.408-04:00In the BeginningI would like to say I spent the first few days proactively researching job opportunities, networking with local arts organizations, and perusing the aisles at the neighborhood Kroeger for new friends with whom I could discuss politics, religion, and art over plates of homemade linguini. I wish I could say I spent those first two weeks in any manner befitting someone who had not just graduated from college and moved to an alien state with a parent recently bumped up from acquaintance status.<br /><br />Instead, I did the only things I could think to do when cast neck deep into the bible belt backwoods of America. I wandered the house in my pajamas—my intermittent episodes of hysteria mixed with self-assuring monologues rife with determination. I spilled my guts over dishes in the kitchen sink to any man (my father) or animal (our dog) unfortunate enough to have gained unlimited access to this daytime drama. <br />I was going to return to New York.<br /><br />It was really a matter of making the future I vividly imagined come to fruition—full time employment, rent, room mates, and a now strained long-distance relationship—were merely factors that, should I complete the necessary legwork, would work out on their own. I was fully prepared to amble the streets of New York—prostituting myself and my hard-won college education to Starbucks, Borders Books, and McDonalds—in search of some shit job that would enable me to earn enough to cover rent on a mattress on the floor east of Manhattan. <br /><br />The recession and my recent exile due to the failure of what my colleagues, professors, and mentors had all predicted would be the start of a successful career in higher education were no match for my sheer willpower. My job hunts were eight-hour marathons spent huddled in the graduate assistant computer lab at my dad’s office counting the job opportunities I had neither the education nor the training for.<br /><br />Each application made its way into the mailbox sandwiched between long-winded letters to loved ones in New York that I’d taken to writing in the early morning hours in the basement. I wrote daily and with conviction—peppering the letters with promises of “I’ll see you soon” or “It won’t be long until…”, cartoon caricatures of young couples in love, and railroad maps that stretched across the envelopes in vivid bleeding red. <br /><br />The mailman became an unwary target of interest whose afternoon deliveries took on the unprecedented ability to trigger waves of manic highs and lows. No matter how he tried to time his route down our street, I was there to meet him at the end of the driveway like a lost dog waiting to be let into the house after a row—waiting for that pat on the head that signals <span style="font-style:italic;">it’s ok girl…it’ll be alright.<br /></span><br />In every effort to launch me into society—Dad introduced me to everyone in his department during our afternoon trips to the office with the hope that, should I make a friend or two, I might return to equilibrium. <br /><br />The professors greeted me warmly, extending hands and pleasantries, but regarding me with an air and hushed tones one would use to greet the terminally ill. One in particular took to popping her head into my Dad’s office across the hall from where I sat to provide a play-by-play commentary of the economic downturn at a record volume. “I just heard something you shouldn’t tell your daughter”, she said. I stopped typing abruptly and leaned back in the overstuffed computer chair to better eavesdrop on what I was already certain would only continue to shred the fragments of my endless-potential-to-be-hired-self-confidence that had recently stuck at 10%. Her pink and white button down visible through the door frame, she continued without concern, “This is sure to send her off the edge. Did you know that some companies are refusing to even consider hiring those who are not currently employed?” <br /><br />Most of the professors only tilted their heads in sympathy and said things like “Oh it’s very nice to meet you. Your father told me about your position and I pray something works out soon.” <br /><br />For the first time in my life, my skepticism about the presence of a higher power—the glorious man in the sky who condemns as frequently as he forgives or loves—marked me as an alien to the South more so than my Yankee accent or my aversion to fast food. The last thing on earth I wanted was someone else’s prayers for my salvation—spiritual, emotional, economical, or otherwise. For a city where storefront churches dotted the commercial districts as frequently as rehab clinics, bordered up windows, and derelict industrial sites; there was hardly a shortage of Christian goodwill, for all the concern God had shown their city. <br /><br />“Never tell them you don’t go to church,” my best friend Mimi told me before I left New York, “If you can’t think of the name of one in the area, just tell them you go to the one around the corner. Churches are <span style="font-style:italic;">everywhere </span>there.”<br /><br />Although her initial prophecy had proved false—that frequent trips to Walmart would cause me to lose my immortal soul—this prediction regarding churches turned out to be fairly accurate. I pressed my nose against the glass and switched from counting fast-food chains to houses of God on our way to the office, many of which had creative titles designed to entice those seeking salvation. Of them, “The Lighthouse New Baptist Church” of Chesapeake, OH, with its bubblegum pink and elegantly painted lighthouse sign, was my favorite. Its parlor sized sanctuary evoked images of neighbors hugging and kissing each other hello under candle-filled chandeliers at Christmas, snow falling into little drifts along the windowpanes. The church sat a few feet from the country road just across the river from Huntington, which bore no such Normal Rockwell retreats.<br /><br />In the past few years, since the utter collapse of the automotive industry in Detroit, pill pushers had flooded the Huntington and Charleston tarmacs in droves. With them, they brought a new level of low-life, poverty, and addiction to the struggling middle class of West Virginia, who’s only foreseeable out seemed chemically intertwined with Oxycontin prescription pain pills. The obsession with escapism sat in the cushioned seats of multiplexes, beneath the dingy stained glass, next to the man who would procure the next hurried exchange of cash for flesh in 4 ½ alley. Whether the legions of the strung-out ever convened with the ranks of the self-righteous in the pews of roadside churches come Sunday—I could not tell. I merely counted them as we drove past on our way to my father’s house on the hill where I had an appointment with the mailman who would surely reward my devotion with an overdue love letter postmarked New York…<span style="font-style:italic;">one Blessed Virgin…one Lighthouse...one New Life…</span>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-3454997992535003942010-08-25T13:38:00.003-04:002010-08-25T13:47:49.414-04:00The CardinalI stared out of the train window at the green blur of trees rushing past, squinting against the glare of sun on the streaked windowpane. The window frame was cool to the touch and I leaned against it, grateful for the sense of stillness it provided. The continual onslaught of foliage, mountains, and the occasional railside town provoked excitement in some of the other passengers. I eyed them with a degree of suspiciousness, wary—not as much of strange travelers—but of the idea that someone might be glad or even looking forward to our collective exile from civilization.<br /><br />Through the crack between the drab upholstered seat and the window, a little girl of about six or seven sat with her nose pressed against the glass. The child’s pigtails swung as she bounced in her seat. Her wide eyes were set comically into her broad pink kewpie-doll face that swiveled upon her neck. My lip twitched in amusement as the girl poked at the glass with a stubby finger, counting the cows that lounged languidly in a muddy field as we passed.<br /><br />“One cows…two cows…three cows”<br /><br />A faint crackle from the intercom interrupted with the news that soon, the Cardinal would be passing through the New River Gorge and that passengers aboard would glimpse a real treat of West Virginian wilderness. <br /><br />“Welcome to West Virginia”, the conductor said proudly, “Wild and wonderful”.<br /><br />This sentiment caused a wave of excitement to ripple throughout the car as the conductor had intended. The other passengers dropped their travel magazines and pulled themselves away from their near completed sodoku puzzles to gaze out the windows at the countryside that, albeit pretty with its rolling hills and babbling streams, was very much like the eight hour stretch of land that had preceded it. <br /><br />Although still appreciative of the cool glass against my cheek, I did not share the joy of my pigtailed compatriot who jabbed now with conviction at passing telephone poles. <br /><br />“Four…five…six…”<br /><br />I chewed my lip while considering my options, a method of thinking I’d picked up from a supervisor I had worked with the previous summer. It had been a habit of hers that I was determined to pick up. I had hoped that somehow her strong leadership qualities and knack for always making the right decision in a time of stress might be transferred to me if I could learn to show myself properly to others—deep in thought, chewing the corner of my lip in quiet determination.<br /><br />Did people stow away in the train’s baggage car these days? <br /><br />I imagined myself a depression-era starlet with rhimel-lined eyes, standing alongside a steaming engine, turning out my empty pocketbook for a gruff, mustached conductor who issued barks of disappointment in flowery subtitles on alternating motion-picture frames. “But sir,” my mouth mimed pathetically, “I am but a penniless college-graduate, sent to live with my father in the wake of this hopeless economy. You cannot cast me out on the tracks.” <br /><br />Or was hiding myself, my oversized red suitcase, black duffel, attaché, and purse in the lavatory until we reached Chicago, where I could purchase a ticket for the next plane home a more viable option? <br /><br />I straddled the train’s toilet, my back pressed against a sign bearing instructions for what to do in case of impact, my arms straining to protect myself and my precarious pile of luggage from feeces smeared walls as the train lurched around roller coaster tracks with growing intensity. With a gut-wrenching click, the lavatory door opened. The face of the portly mustached train conductor poked around the frame, narrowing his eyes at the sight of a petite twenty-something year old woman now struggling to remove one high heel shoe from the sputtering, flushing toilet. <br /><br />My mind flickered and switched to a courtroom scene with myself standing before the imposing conductor, clothed in judges robes and a long powdered wig. A nervous twittering from the jury and spectators rang throughout the marbled courtroom as the judge banged his gavel against the bench in an attempt to regain order. I shifted in my patent-leather pumps, scratching the back of my ankle against the heel before returned it to my shoe. With baited breath, I clasped my hands modestly against my tweed suit and raised my eyes to meet his. <br /><br />“And what, may I ask,” growled the judge, flecks of saliva catching in his moustache, “was your reason for not getting off at your scheduled destination?”<br /><br />I paused, took a breath, and answered him in a calm, cool tone.<br /><br />“Explosive diarrhea, sir.” I answered.<br /><br />It is the perfect excuse. No one questions it. <br /><br /><br />I did not stay on my train past my destination. I comforted myself with the thought that, should anyone call me back to the land of the living, I could always find a way to fly home. The fifteen hours it had taken just to reach Huntington, West Virginia, had been more than enough traveling for one day. Perched on the edge of my seat, my distractions packed prematurely, I ground my teeth as the car now crawled through low-rent districts, scrap yards, and blocks of defunct commercial storefronts. <br /><br />Safe in the knowledge that I would soon be departing, I looked around the train car, noticing for the first time the dingy gray seats with rainbow stripes, the flickering overhead lights, and the sea foam green carpet worn thin around the foot wells. <br /><br />Most of the other passengers seemed to be either sleeping or attempting to read in the strobe light, but a man of considerable size sitting across the aisle sat on the edge of his seat too, scrutinizing me with his steady blue gaze. <br /><br />The man wore a starched white collared shirt that ballooned from his neck into a silver belt buckle cast with the over sized head of a steer. Across his khaki knees he had draped a brown paper napkin beneath a cardboard lunch tray. He stirred a coke absentmindedly with a bloated, ringed finger and I saw myself through his eyes. <br /><br />The woman sitting across from him was a small but athletically built, pretty sort of girl in her early twenties, unsuitably dressed for travel in a pair of tight dark jeans, sport coat, and strappy sandals. Her almond brown eyes reflected curiosity mixed with fear. She adjusted and readjusted her chocolate brown ponytail, brushing a tangle of bangs that fell about her forehead in the kind of disarray kids these days spent far too much money, time, and energy to achieve. The girl seemed to be traveling with far too much luggage than was manageable for one person and she had a nervous habit of biting the lower right corner of her lips. <br /><br />The couple behind me returned from the dining car with overflowing cardboard trays, clutching the backs of isle seats to steady themselves. The woman flung herself into the seat next to the window with an audible huff and complained that the dining car’s prices had been far too costly for the chips, cookies, and soggy Italian submarine sandwiches they’d gotten.<br /><br />“Lord, Ah near damn broke now.”<br /><br />“See Ah told you, you shoulda signed up for social security,” her companion suggested, “It pays a whole lot more and you jus’ walk out there to your box an’ go git it.”<br /><br />The linen gentleman had stopped his visual interrogation of my person and belongings to take a bite of his submarine as the couple behind me continued to discuss how to receive more benefits from the federal government that did not involve yet another nine months of bloated feet. The sandwich squelched unpleasantly as he bit into it and it spat a slice of tomato into his lunch box with a plop.<br /><br />“Did you get on in New York?” the man drawled.<br /><br />He continued to chew his sandwich and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin.<br /><br />“I-I’m sorry. Did I what?” I stammered, severing my gaze from the bit of onion on his chin in the realization that this question had been addressed to me.<br /><br />“Ah said…Did you get on in New York?” He asked again, more slowly this time, as if speaking to a dimwitted child.<br /><br />“Y-yes. Actually yes. I did.”<br /><br />The man took another bite of his sandwich before commenting as he shook his head slightly, “I could tell by the looks of ya’. Yer not from ‘round here.”<br /><br />Affronted by this appraisal, I pressed my lips together and returned to look out the window as the train came to a halt. <br /><br />Monstrous weeds poked cracks through the sidewalk that emerged through the dark like vault lines and fast-food containers that littered the gutters in the street. Some of the shop’s papered windows on either side of the train station had been graffitied by the more creative inhabitants of the city, while others bore the standard “For Sale” sign. All of them were shabby, unloved, and unwanted in their disuse. <span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />Welcome to West Virginia, wild and wonderful.</span>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-31017088108681740232009-11-03T17:41:00.004-05:002009-11-08T01:37:58.007-05:00SALAD Show at the Kingston Shirt Factory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCT2Foaj2d6UUg20PR7QWMiDhaTXZHPqt4dTzGDs1Tijk0byqORH7aO9BpBaHAxP9IdQ1E8FN-bDgzfcsWGHiPSGjj1xxEDYiKGKX5OrpGdjCL7dW5JMEqT0Y6dOUNisCKttFFV7LDF4/s1600-h/saladshow6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCT2Foaj2d6UUg20PR7QWMiDhaTXZHPqt4dTzGDs1Tijk0byqORH7aO9BpBaHAxP9IdQ1E8FN-bDgzfcsWGHiPSGjj1xxEDYiKGKX5OrpGdjCL7dW5JMEqT0Y6dOUNisCKttFFV7LDF4/s320/saladshow6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401617868592159458" /></a><br /><br />I had the incredible opportunity to have two pieces, silkscreen "I Had the Notion That You'd Make Me Change My Ways" and color separation photo litho "Masked: Bruised" shown in a group show at the Kingston Shirt Factory this October. The show, curated by a handful of SUNY New Paltz graduate students, received quite a bit of buzz from the local arts community. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5FS-6IJ99S7gvqOVeFyfvENsGnUxrv7iKq-4_zFmZjj7JAAGIgfiZuDN8Yu4nU_y7UEihKeUqepn8FV4Wzr06vYaefEG1mN4VwxbBVJJgN3saW27qY_Akk-XIDmQuAmUuXChOwGF6do/s1600-h/saladshow5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5FS-6IJ99S7gvqOVeFyfvENsGnUxrv7iKq-4_zFmZjj7JAAGIgfiZuDN8Yu4nU_y7UEihKeUqepn8FV4Wzr06vYaefEG1mN4VwxbBVJJgN3saW27qY_Akk-XIDmQuAmUuXChOwGF6do/s320/saladshow5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401617950960250690" /></a><br /><br />"Masked: Bruised"Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-8307004504035966502009-09-17T20:44:00.000-04:002009-09-18T16:35:22.908-04:00Insight, creativity, and genius (and why we kill it)Every once in a while you come across a talk or an article that is vitally instrumental in readjusting your perspective with regards to your own creative process and all of its dawdling, roadblocks, dry spells, dead-ends, and fortunate accidents. This past week’s reading, The Eureka Hunt, by Jonah Lehrer in conjunction with a recent podcast I’d seen by bestselling author, Elizabeth Gilbert, prompted more than a few excited phone calls and a major sigh of relief.<br /><br />I’m a bit of a planner and despite my usually content-to-wander nature; I want nothing less than to hit the ground running every morning completely sure of my purpose and direction. I have rarely, if ever even paused to consider, much less seek to understand or respect, my own process in creating insightful work.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">First there was the impasse</span>…or several of them. While I had always appreciated the artistic abilities of others, I suffered from an acute lack of experience and confidence in my own abilities. I was learning a new way to look at the world around me and a language with which to analyze and describe it though I could never adequately seem to utilize any of those developing skills to my own standards.<br /><br />What I both appreciated and abhorred was the constant state of production I felt I had entered into when I first came to college. Stretched thinly between studios and upper division liberal arts classes I was unprepared to take as a first year, I struggled with even the most basic creative problem solving. I would perch myself on a stool and observe the “tactics and strategies” of friends I admired, talking desperately in an attempt to focus my own thoughts. I was sure that I would arrive at the perfect solution to each puzzle if only I could direct my attention. I was too inexperienced—too stressed—too tired to come up with the answers I sought. <br /><br />The copious amounts of coffee I consumed stirred constant fluttering of panic in my chest and I became less organized—more frazzled than I ever had been before. I was frantic to remember my schedule, assignments, obligations, and commitments. It began to become more than a constant hum in my chest—I began to lose friendships over my inability to focus. I went to the doctor in hopes of a little blue slip that would enable me to channel my thoughts in whatever direction I wanted. The diagnosis: Attention Deficit Disorder. I left clutching the little blue slip feeling oddly relieved that yes! I was right! My brain did not work like everyone else’s. <br /><br />I never filled that prescription. <br /><br />It sat on my dresser until I threw it away a month ago. What happened after I left the office that day was that I no longer felt responsible for all the gaps in attention. I learned to relax and because I recognized that my mind tended to wander, I learned to accept it and ground myself once in a while. Letting go of the anxiety did not happen over night but it did improve and I began to have a few creative “aha” moments of my own.<br /><br />As I continue to recognize and appreciate occasional moments of certainty, I’m beginning to understand and respect that that there is value in being able to wander. I’m learning that that while “we must concentrate… we must concentrate on letting the mind wander” to allow our brains to “make a set of distant and unprecedented connections” on the path of creative problem solving. While I still might not find enjoyment in the dawdling, roadblocks, dry spells, occasional dead-ends, I have found beauty in uncertainty and the infinite possibilities of what is, what might be, and what lies ahead. <br /><br /><br />I highly recommend investigating <a href="http://www.ted.com">www.ted.com</a>, a website devoted to sharing the experiences, thoughts, and anticdotes from today's leading intellectuals (scientific and creative alike!) In particular, I appreciated a talk given by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the best selling memoir <span style="font-style:italic;">Eat Pray Love</span>. It's titled "<a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html">Genius and Why We Kill It</a>". Also, "The Eureka Hunt", an article by Jonah Lehrer absolutely change the way you think about your approach to creative success. Enjoy!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-29527074515530369372009-09-09T11:00:00.000-04:002009-09-09T11:38:15.700-04:00A bit of a recapIn the very beginning of the summer, before I'd hardly had a chance to unwind, I boarded a plane bound for West Virginia where I went to visit my Dad. I had not, for a multitude of reasons, seen my father since the day I graduated high school in 2005. There had always been all these reasons and excuses why I hadn't visited him. I've realized that despite everything and anything...there are some relationships in your life and people you meet or know that are worth holding on to. While it was stressful in its own way, I'm grateful the trip gave me the opportunity to get to know him better.<br /><br />Working for CTY this summer as an administrator was above all things a tremendous learning experience through which I made a small handful of incredible friends. While it was not what I had expected and my naive enthusiasm for the position did not serve me well, I adapted and made the best of it. I missed working more closely with students and found myself creating opportunities--visiting floors to join in on improvised four square games, co-facilitating afternoon swing dancing lessons, acting as a pirate judge for campus color wars, and performing in a staff lip sync for the talent show just to be a greater part of the action. <br /><br />While I have not made any decisions regarding future endeavors (as I really ought to as soon as I can) I'm hopeful I will return to CLI in Baltimore next summer, where I really felt I had a tremendous positive impact on the staff and students.<br /><br />Moving back to New Paltz was like coming home. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and keep reminding myself to soak up every minute and to take advantage of every opportunity I can. <br /><br />I also started working on a new body of work. At the end of last semester I spent an exuberant amount of time in the studio cutting out magazine clippings. I kept finding all these characters and scenes that suggested strong narratives filled with tension. I've begun scanning these collages and am making large format digital prints of them that I'm going to continue to print over. I'll have to post some images soon.<br /><br />Song of the day: The Weakerthans-My Favorite ChordsLizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-17219739817116803322009-05-12T13:39:00.000-04:002009-05-12T13:52:59.498-04:00Recent Works (A Small Selection)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYySMlf811lv4uI8meeWttkjjYTHSWEK1k09pHl0OgfFjgOx-DHDZ_Rgeyc93hN52648Pzk_pWDYI0LuV-Jg1uvW3IL56w4HKbqSO5IPrrAJnYm-GnJtKxsBJArIp8woeJDaCxlzWf5OM/s1600-h/Liz+Cooper-AbsuryOT.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYySMlf811lv4uI8meeWttkjjYTHSWEK1k09pHl0OgfFjgOx-DHDZ_Rgeyc93hN52648Pzk_pWDYI0LuV-Jg1uvW3IL56w4HKbqSO5IPrrAJnYm-GnJtKxsBJArIp8woeJDaCxlzWf5OM/s320/Liz+Cooper-AbsuryOT.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334995066198007346" /></a><br />"Oral Time Asbury Park"<br />Spring 2009 Advanced Etching Class Exchange 1/21<br />Photo Separation Color Silkscreen, Photo Lithography, Chine Colle, Collage<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMctJVlqRrZhiols_jQeginfN8YukvqSD5UAKnGYqEInUbPWV4FRht5dloE6cA5N2is5ZJ-S_Qtjdg2bBUILsgvpYzEUEuMfHI7TZuuOtGeBGarhVKlD9HzZJOOU-cOUnAHsS_lijLLjc/s1600-h/Liz+Cooper-In+Search+of+the+Absolute+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMctJVlqRrZhiols_jQeginfN8YukvqSD5UAKnGYqEInUbPWV4FRht5dloE6cA5N2is5ZJ-S_Qtjdg2bBUILsgvpYzEUEuMfHI7TZuuOtGeBGarhVKlD9HzZJOOU-cOUnAHsS_lijLLjc/s320/Liz+Cooper-In+Search+of+the+Absolute+3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334993689754117282" /></a><br />"In Search of the Absolute: A Local Perspective III" Spring 2009 1/1<br />Color Separation Photo Silkscreen, Photo Lithography, Chine Colle, Ink, Collage<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZdIrpvYJ_Id_IXmU4XghJhmcz9i4VvyJ3K0mZr3RbtfDkIAU6FEIRVPKiUAJLpaQKe_gJ2nYH4QrQF34LU2mPan3ss2U2FYn8t05XVW02QYulSrNUufmY-4HgxqVTEOndogA04gYXQE/s1600-h/Liz+Cooper-Mask4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZdIrpvYJ_Id_IXmU4XghJhmcz9i4VvyJ3K0mZr3RbtfDkIAU6FEIRVPKiUAJLpaQKe_gJ2nYH4QrQF34LU2mPan3ss2U2FYn8t05XVW02QYulSrNUufmY-4HgxqVTEOndogA04gYXQE/s320/Liz+Cooper-Mask4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334994007237224562" /></a><br />"Masked (bitten)" Spring 2009 1/1<br />Color Separation Photo Lithography, Chine Colle<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXrTe_F2zHJ0hgPSOsANnHvXnpSNLhl3RzyXW-MAnUwLO1vmglFCRFoQ2elu0YYQKgtxaI0zoRNaMHCv2PQbxWJBbRViZTohwU8ZQhPK1FDl03F2FzFVR_EHEwfv5rMyTtGLC3jndxpI/s1600-h/Liz+Cooper-Mask5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXrTe_F2zHJ0hgPSOsANnHvXnpSNLhl3RzyXW-MAnUwLO1vmglFCRFoQ2elu0YYQKgtxaI0zoRNaMHCv2PQbxWJBbRViZTohwU8ZQhPK1FDl03F2FzFVR_EHEwfv5rMyTtGLC3jndxpI/s320/Liz+Cooper-Mask5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334994241335234162" /></a><br />"Masked (bruised)" Spring 2009 1/1<br />Color Separation Photo Lithography, Chine Colle<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PokyWVdHLIrvjntQvk8uDf0GaKfNJx2Jqh7U1WC_GqICSCQIdVIwxSSt5zLz3VVNfzfvaFsw9SgVBrhu3fS_j_JHtACyNjl5peZfjazTclZs98TvYZVtu5jX0Ssg0MzQ0EFYqeMk5X0/s1600-h/Oh+Everything.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PokyWVdHLIrvjntQvk8uDf0GaKfNJx2Jqh7U1WC_GqICSCQIdVIwxSSt5zLz3VVNfzfvaFsw9SgVBrhu3fS_j_JHtACyNjl5peZfjazTclZs98TvYZVtu5jX0Ssg0MzQ0EFYqeMk5X0/s320/Oh+Everything.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334996321194100978" /></a><br />"Oh Everything"<br />Part of the Collaboration/Scavenged Series Spring 2009<br />Mixed Media Collage<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADoFRkXbNjc9aXqTHyLMdCQx-vtlCNekj_Txd4E0_Wy4Ii1LAh0MyfryU9sjhDLldhzv0ORR6-vA-RB5eBYDsSaM4HYhU1bGXTr1J0cTQi22yqip8cYwoegpqEm0XBINCXEdNGqJ614A/s1600-h/With+my+head+in+your+hands.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADoFRkXbNjc9aXqTHyLMdCQx-vtlCNekj_Txd4E0_Wy4Ii1LAh0MyfryU9sjhDLldhzv0ORR6-vA-RB5eBYDsSaM4HYhU1bGXTr1J0cTQi22yqip8cYwoegpqEm0XBINCXEdNGqJ614A/s320/With+my+head+in+your+hands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334996663617237970" /></a><br />"With My Head in Your Hands"<br />Part of the Collaboration/Scavenged Series Spring 2009<br />Mixed Media CollageLizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-65681981543767813352009-04-29T08:44:00.000-04:002009-04-29T09:16:09.462-04:00Pay It Forward<span style="font-family:georgia;">The premise of the novel “Pay It Forward” is one that any person can implement in his or her own life, at any time. It begins with doing a favor for another person ~ without any expectation of being paid back. Indeed one would request that the recipient of that favor do the same for someone else ~ ideally, for three other people. The unconditional favors can be large or small. As 12-year-old Trevor observes in the novel: it doesn't have to be a big thing. It can just seem that way, depending on whom you do it for. Both to inspire and to educate, the </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.payitforwardfoundation.org/welcome.html"><b>Pay It Forward Foundation</b></a><span style="font-family:georgia;"> posts projects, activities and stories to </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.payitforwardfoundation.org/get_involved.html">this website</a><span style="font-family:georgia;"> and to the </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.payitforwardmovement.org/" target="_blank">Pay It Forward Movement</a><span style="font-family:georgia;"> website. There’s really no end to what you can do when you set your mind to Pay It Forward!</span>
<br />
<br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Tomorrow is National Pay It Forward Day! Here are some ideas of little ways in which </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >you</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> can Pay It Forward.</span>
<br />
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link style="font-family: georgia;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cpubaff1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Wingdings; panose-1:5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:2; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 268435456 0 0 -2147483648 0;} @font-face {font-family:"MS Mincho"; panose-1:2 2 6 9 4 2 5 8 3 4; mso-font-alt:"MS 明朝"; mso-font-charset:128; mso-generic-font-family:modern; mso-font-pitch:fixed; mso-font-signature:-1610612033 1757936891 16 0 131231 0;} @font-face {font-family:"\@MS Mincho"; panose-1:2 2 6 9 4 2 5 8 3 4; mso-font-charset:128; mso-generic-font-family:modern; mso-font-pitch:fixed; mso-font-signature:-1610612033 1757936891 16 0 131231 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language:JA;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:1250237802; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:1378525266 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:; mso-level-tab-stop:.5in; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-.25in; font-family:Symbol;} ol {margin-bottom:0in;} ul {margin-bottom:0in;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <ul style="margin-top: 0in; font-family: georgia;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Start your own<a href="http://www.freehugscampaign.org/"> </a><a href="http://www.freehugscampaign.org/">Free Hugs Campaign</a>!
<br /></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">At a drive through, pay for the car behind's meal and give the cashier a Pay it Forward card to pass on...You could do this at a gas station, coffee shop, etc.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Visit an elderly neighbor’s house and ask them if they need any help with house work.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Donate some money to your favorite charity.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Tell the manager of a restaurant how great your waiter/waitress was.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Talk to parking attendants - try and get them to hand out Pay it Forward cards instead of Parking fines or top up other people's parking meters to stop them getting a fine.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Cook a casserole for a new mom. Caring for newborns is tiring and draining. Mom will appreciate the ability to eat something home-cooked without having to cook it herself.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Clip a $5, $10, or $20 bill to a “Pay It Forward Card” and as you pass by someone’s table on the way out of the restaurant, drop or slip it on the table or simply hand it to someone sitting there. If they refuse to take it, give it to the next table.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">If you are washing your own car or mowing your own lawn, do the same for your next door neighbor.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">At your office, thank the “little people”. Everyone’s part is essential and no one’s job is purposeless. Thank the mail guy, the girl who orders supplies, or the door person.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Drive an older person in the neighborhood to the grocery store (they will love the opportunity to get out of the house, as well) or if they aren’t able to go themselves, take their list and go to the store for them. If at all possible, pay for their things.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Be a mentor for someone who needs some support.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Give a homeless person some food vouchers along with a Pay it Forward card.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Do some work for a client or one that can't afford your services free of charge - just ask that they Pay it Forward.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></li></ul> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are so many ways to brighten someone else's day. One gentleman donated $10,000 for a lady to have a liver operation she couldn't afford - he was a stranger and remains so to this day. What an amazing random act of kindness and what a difference it has made to that lady and all the people with whom she comes into contact.
<br />
<br />It doesn't need to be expensive.....it just needs to be from the heart. What random acts of kindness will you do on April 30<sup>th</sup> and beyond?</p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-24135768625303744182009-04-13T21:15:00.000-04:002009-04-13T21:29:04.391-04:00Alan and the Strange Light<a href="http://www.newpaltz.edu/museum/exhibitions/alan/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Alan and the Strange Light</span></a>: A Photographic Diary by Michael Weisbrot is an online exhibition from The Samuel Dorsky Museum of Art that chronicles the experiences of Alan, the photographer's newphew, as he falls through the cracks of the American health care system. One of the most incredible collections of photography with a heart wrenching story to accompany it. Any further description I could provide would be completely inadequate. You <span style="font-style: italic;">must </span>see it.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-63009458687213576812009-04-13T01:06:00.000-04:002009-04-13T20:33:21.580-04:00Problem SolvingSo I have a few projects in the works--more unresolved prints than I can count. I thought that perhaps, in writing a bit about the series I have developing, it might help me sort through some creative problem solving process and potentially point me in a better direction to develop my concept for my senior thesis. I feel it looming already, such an intense wish to be a credit to everyone and myself. I still have to get through this semester!<br /><br />A friend of mine took a picture of me wearing a dust mask I dragged out from my days as a metals student. It's a really interesting photo--a glamor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chernobylesque</span> image. I printed the photo using color separation photo lithography onto vellum. Kind of a torturous process. The paper rolled, wrinkled, smudged, etc. any time I tried to manipulate it. Out of about 20 or so sheets, I have about 8 that were successful. I've been layering computer print out images from the media of disasters happening all over the world (earthquakes, fires, murder, etc) behind sections of the portrait on vellum using <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">PVA</span> glue applied with an airbrush gun. I celebrated my success prematurely as the adhesive worked for about a night. A friend suggested I try applying matte medium and sending them through the press again but I'm bit nervous. Any suggestions?<br /><br />The other work I have in progress at the moment is expanding off of a color separation photo silkscreen I did of Convention Hall in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Asbury</span> Park, NJ. It's turned into a few mixed media prints with inclusive cutouts, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">collaged</span> photo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">litho</span> figure, pen and ink map, and some actual sandpapering into the print. I'm printing an edition of 30 much smaller prints (8x10) for a portfolio exchange that's pretty settled. I've been doing a lot of scavenging--pulling unwanted prints from the trash, cutting, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">collaging</span>, and working into them to develop something new.<br /><br />I'm completely stalled on what I want to do for my final project in photo silkscreen. My professor really pushes for us to work 3D which I don't mind but I feel so directionless!<br /><br />I did a collection of paper wedding/engagement rings with divorce stats on them last semester. I thought they were humorous and an interesting look into a social institution and it's rules of governance. My professor thought it was sad. I've done body casting where I interviewed a close friend about his life/medical procedures that have produced extensive scars on his body and projected the video onto the cast. I'm not opposed to creating an involved piece with serious emotional subject matter or an extensive process. I like creating socially conscious work I just lean towards creating <span style="font-style: italic;">two </span>dimensional socially conscious work.<br /><br />On a personal note: I think what I really need is to go for a walk, curl up on a couch in a corner of a coffee house, and enjoy a good cup of coffee.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-12218040909102564732009-04-12T01:04:00.000-04:002009-04-12T01:17:44.797-04:00JHU's Center For Talented YouthThis past week I received a phone call from a Project Manager for Johns Hopkins University's <a href="http://cty.jhu.edu/">Center For Talented Youth Program</a> saying that I an employment opportunity opened up for me as a Senior Resident Assistant at a site in Pennsylvania. I was originally told the enrollment rates were so low, they had been forced to cut a number of spots and that the likelihood of new ones becoming available were slim to none. You can imagine my surprise when a Baltimore area code appeared on my phone and I found myself accepting the position immediately!<br /><br />I am a former student of the program back when it was called IAAY in '96 and then CTY in '97. I came back to work for their Civic Leadership Institute (developed with a sister program in Chicago) as a Resident Assistant. Grateful for what my experience had been as a student, I was eager to play a dynamic role in creating a similar positive experience for my own students. The three weeks I spent in Baltimore were truly remarkable and I cannot wait to join the staff at my new site this summer. As a Senior RA, I will be in more of a supervisory position, responsible for training and leading the staff, handling any disciplinary issues, and maintaining a close line of communication with administrators. The hours are crazy and I get maybe two days off in seven weeks. I will be distracted beyond belief and for that I'm even more grateful.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-28738699602701047142009-03-10T12:41:00.000-04:002009-03-10T12:46:07.666-04:00CAFEAttention all artists! Interested in applying to shows all over the country with the ease of a mouse click or two? Register online at callforentry.org to create a comprehensive online profile with up to 100 images of your work and an artist's statement. Once registered, you can view all the upcoming listings of art shows, pick those you'd like to apply to, and send in your images/payment directly online!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-21314888192804635112009-03-02T13:53:00.000-05:002009-03-02T14:25:00.476-05:00SOLD! and a Conference Winning roll callAlas, my group show on the New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Paltz</span> campus has ended! It was dismantled and its contents distributed to new homes on the walls of my room February 24<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span>. The Art Society of Kingston (ASK) "Generation Gap" show has also come to a close. "I wish that I could have been warned", the print I posted in my last entry was featured on the cover of "Art Times", a small Hudson Valley Arts guide. I was unable to attend the opening. I did manage to sneak a peek at the show on Valentine's day and I'm incredibly excited to say that the print was sold! I'm flattered and truly grateful for the publicity and support of my work.<br /><br />My father, who has really come around to the idea of me studying art in general, has also offered to buy one of my prints as an act of support. I will be sending him a framed copy of "Poster of a girl" in the mail shortly. :)<br /><br />This month has been a whirlwind of activity and I can't say enough how grateful I am for the opportunities I've received. This past weekend I represented New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Paltz</span> an annual Residence Life conference at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">SUNY</span> Cortland. Our team of 12 student leaders from New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Paltz</span> put together a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lipsync</span> for the conference's roll call challenge that really wowed the crowd and won first place! There are links to the video all over <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">facebook</span>, so I'll see if there's a way I could post it here!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-78122928140497794252009-02-05T13:42:00.000-05:002009-02-05T14:02:31.872-05:00Her morning Elegance and Small Steps Forward<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKgjIWR0sIYiM-nq8Kj-h8W5i6VDmx6fVC1OgvWr7EBvJbHHbE1dKIGiVNuPY1gBAAjM97qHCoVyNjg474AO-6S3u9jWKj_VxVw9gJmxJmCETxAMCGkzLG2Yz5e3E2HWBxaimo6-tp1Y/s1600-h/vdgPE_Liz_Cooper_smallsmall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKgjIWR0sIYiM-nq8Kj-h8W5i6VDmx6fVC1OgvWr7EBvJbHHbE1dKIGiVNuPY1gBAAjM97qHCoVyNjg474AO-6S3u9jWKj_VxVw9gJmxJmCETxAMCGkzLG2Yz5e3E2HWBxaimo6-tp1Y/s320/vdgPE_Liz_Cooper_smallsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299390697843034978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yay for Small successes!<br /><br />I've recently been a part of two small group exhibitions at the Art Society of Kingston in Kingston, NY! ASK is a wonderful arts organization with beautiful gallery space and an amazing array of talented members who frequently show there. My first print was selected for a juried show titled "SUNY New Paltz Printmakers: Contemporary Printmaking" that was held Jan 3rd-Feb 3rd. Not only was it featured on their website, but it was featured in a printed review of the show alongside BFA and MFA candidates I really admire. The second piece, another smallish photo silkscreen print is currently on display in another juried show at ASK titled "Generation Gap" until Feb. 28th. You can currently view the print here or on their website: http://www.askforarts.org/exhibits/details.php?num=271Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-4900079481881300472008-06-16T19:57:00.000-04:002008-06-16T20:05:22.828-04:00Wanted: Significant SomethingI've developed a curiosity with the human experience, relationships/dating, and the "self advertising" that has quickly become a major part of all of the above. I've read hundreds of personal ads in the interest of art (and my own curiosity) and even wrote a few of my own. Occasionally, a creative one will catch my eye and I wanted to share them...here's one of hopefully many more to come. It's titled "Wanted: Significant Something"<br /><br />Description/Position Summary:<br />My company’s public relation’s department currently has a part-time opening for a ‘Probationary Friend’. You must understand this is an entry level position and as such, you may be terminated at any time for any reason.<br /><br />However, the right candidate will rise quickly and could possibly be interviewed for the lucrative full time position of Significant Other at a moments notice. Keep in mind, we are looking for only the best and brightest talented individual to fill this position. The Significant Other is a cornerstone of our company and can be a very rewarding position. This person will where many hats and be able to change them tactfully and gracefully to suit the given situation. The Significant Other is responsible for contributing (at least in part) to emotional stability and support, physical tenderness and excitement, as well as mental stability and entertainment. The exceptional Significant Other may also pursue the “Life Partner” Track, which will lead to a much broader spectrum of benefits and responsibilities. Our ideal candidate will possess the following characteristics:<br /><br />-Be self-motivated <br />-Be a great team player<br />-Have great creativity <br />-Caring: not only for themselves, but the company as a whole<br />-Detail-oriented<br />-The ability to work long hours and overtime<br />-The ability to finish work in a timely manner<br />-Open to direction and adaptable to change<br />-Must have excellent written and oral communication skills<br />-A great ability to multi-task<br />-Excellent time management skills<br />-The ability to work in a fast-paced, occasionally stressful environment<br />-The ability to prioritize based on limited information<br />-Must be able to work independently <br />-Excellent problem solving skills<br />-The ability to work very closely with a partner<br />-The ability to meet performance quotas <br />-A winning ‘can-do’ attitude <br /><br />Desired Skills: <br />-The ability to lie comfortably in front of a movie<br />-The ability to ask and answer questions over dinner or drinks<br />-The ability to chase sunsets at a moments notice<br />-The ability to understand that no one is perfect<br />-The desire to make the company greater than the sum of its parts<br />-The desire to take and use vacation time effectively and often<br />-The desire to find a compromise between two differing view points<br />-The desire to smile early and often<br />-The desire and love of love<br /><br />Qualifications/Requirements:<br />Candidate must have a high school education or better. Candidate must also have 2-5 years experience of related experience. No beginners please!<br /><br />Salary/Benefits: <br />Salary is commensurate with experience. Great benefits package for full time employment! <br /><br />This company is EOE.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-84480659147469881052008-06-06T14:00:00.001-04:002008-06-06T14:08:00.454-04:00Against the GrainI've had very little to write here other than....<br /><ul><li>"dating" is strange and nearly a non-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">existent</span> practice of our generation</li><li>online personals seem like a human sears catalogue</li><li>if girls spent as much time and energy on their education/careers/something worth while as they do on their waist lines, makeup, and hair in the pursuit of male attention...so much more would be accomplished</li><li>and that I, inexplicably, just can't seem to relate...</li></ul>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-27557062694907742272008-06-01T11:23:00.000-04:002008-06-03T23:44:48.141-04:00"Today I was a terrorist"The clock ticked idly on the wall as I stood in the lobby watching a team of firemen in their rubber-duck HasMat suits carry the last of my fellow victims across the grass to the yellow tent erected on the other end that I’d come to learn was a “Decontamination” station. I’d been “dead” for three hours give or take and by this point I was the last “victim” in the auditorium around which all the commotion had been staged. It was my entire fault.<br /><br />My mother, a contractor and member of the controller team evaluating responders during the exercise, had asked me if I would like to volunteer to be a “victim” in an exercise they were holding at the fort and if I wouldn’t mind being “decontaminated”. The very word provoked a number of questions but I arrived Wednesday morning armed with a backpack full of snacks and my bathing suit under my clothes. I was ready.<br /><br />Mom didn’t mention anything about being a terrorist.<br /><br />The evidence was highly suggestive, a letter detailing a possible motive for the attack, tucked into the furthermost pocket of my backpack. The fire alarms of the building were set off and the victims waited to be rescued. There were five of us staged in the auditorium—not including two heavy looking dummies that also required rescuing—and fourteen in total. It was an hour before firemen entered the building and three more had passed before firemen packaged my limp body on a yellow sled and dragged me from the building with my backpack as evidence.<br /><br />An initial decontamination shower had been unleashed in front of the building and the team of firemen carrying me paused beneath it until I was thoroughly soaked. I shivered despite the sun and I tried not to smile as the firemen overhead remarked that for a dead body, I sure seemed cold. I squeezed my eyes shut as I was transferred from the sled to a portable conveyor belt inside the HasMat decontamination tent. When I opened them, the four pretty female GI’s leaning over me were discussing procedure. “This is where we’d remove your clothes and begin decontamination”, one of them said to me. I piped up and told them I’d come prepared and they processed me without hesitation, fed my arms and head through a plastic body bag, and folded my arms over my chest. My bag was searched and the evidence eventually made it’s way into the hands of the authorities.<br /><br />They told me I could go home.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-89176114478423315632008-05-26T22:53:00.000-04:002008-05-26T23:53:28.795-04:00Well it seems I've been deceivedIt has been a real treat to be home. It's been amazing to see old friends, visit with new ones, and rediscover my old haunts around town. I've taken to running to the public beach two towns over and sitting in the sand for a while watching the waves and people chase their toddlers up and down the beach playing chicken with the waves. It's wonderful to be home but I'm finding something haunting about it that I have yet to shake.<br /><br />When a relationship ends, sympathetic spectators are quick to pat you on the back and tell you how glad they are that you've learned something from the experience. While I frequently arm myself with such convictions, I've been thinking of late how tired I am of feeling like the very beach upon which I rest my sneakers.<br /><br />Family, friends, lovers, strangers, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">trespassers</span> alike have left traces of themselves in the form of sandcastles, doodles, and the occasional trail of footprints passing through. There are memories I like to sit with once in a while and soak in their warmth through remembrance. It's never much but it's enough to keep me going so long as I don't dwell in them for too long. Being back here--being home--keeps me close to the company of ghosts I keep and these memories with which I like to sit once in a while have been in my mind from the first morning stretch to when I close my eyes at night. They're at their worst when I'm out for a run.<br /><br />It seems strange to be haunted by happy memories but this nagging fear in the pit of my stomach suggests crimes of more than missing, wishing, and remembering.<br /><br />It is also <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">completely</span> unhelpful that City and Colour's "<a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=-rm9O1CRWSE&feature=related">Confessions</a>" has been stuck in my head for days on end. I will shake this.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-17271206825104789422008-05-24T17:20:00.000-04:002008-05-24T17:46:30.485-04:00learn something new every dayIf there's one thing I always say when talking about my family it's this: we're complicated. I can never keep up with the various multi-decade long family feuds, who's speaking to whom, who swore they'd kill the other on sight, etc. We're Irish, German, French, Austrian, etc. and quite dramatic apparently. We're a family in which different groups gather for the various obligatory holidays and that's about it.<br /><br />This afternoon, a few members of my family got together to eat dinner with a semi-long-lost uncle from Claifornia I haven't visited with since I was twelve. This afternoon has been really nice, an actual family occasion (granted there are only 5 of us here) where uncles and aunts came over to exchange hugs, stories, and copious amounts of food and where I unexpectedly learned a bit more about myself.<br /><br />Today, I learned I'm related to Leslie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">LaGroves</span>, a graduate of MIT, West Point, and the project manager "master mind" of the Manhattan project "responsible for killing all those Japanese people" as my aunt phrased it. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">LaGroves</span> was also responsible for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">CIA's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">operational</span> policy of sharing information on a need to know basis, a topic of much discussion at the dinner table--more so than our family's hand in the dropping of the atomic bomb. Casual tidbit of dinner conversation I'm sure. Why hasn't anyone mentioned this before?<br /><br />I also learned...as my other uncle pointed out, that I have double jointed thumbs. Sweet.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-61853056340779704412008-05-23T22:08:00.000-04:002008-05-23T22:53:06.404-04:00you might roll your eyes at thisFor all my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">optimistic</span> rambling, I've become much more quiet than I used to be and there are days I "live inside my head" as my friend <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">scott</span> likes to say. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Scotty</span> lives almost entirely inside his head. He swears it's safer there where you're freer from judgement and guilt. I can't really agree on my part but perhaps that's the difference between us. It's not as gloomy as one might think. That very phrase "living inside your head" has the tendency to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">incur</span> sidelong glances and raised eyebrows everyone save the most understanding of friends. It's more pensive than anything and all I can think about is that line from "My Favorite Chords" by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Weakerthans</span> that repeats over and over in my head:<br /><br />"You are a radio. You are an open door. I am a faulty string of blue <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Christmas</span> lights. You swim through frequencies. You let that stranger in, as I'm blinking off and on and off again."<br /><br />More than anything I keep remembering the summers that have come before and I crave with an intensity I can't describe to relive every waking moment of the past four years of my life (the good, the bad, and the ugly) if only just to have for one second the chance to feel that kind of love again.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-55694458989729877122008-05-21T12:32:00.001-04:002008-05-21T13:39:07.426-04:00The most important relationship you'll ever haveI played catch up with my best girl friend from home over salads at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Panera's</span> yesterday. We dished over school, grades, <em>guys</em>, and that pesky ex-boyfriend my friend couldn't seem to get away from. She'd met lots of guys at school but she always seemed to compare them to him--no one got her the way he did and although he wasn't always so great (we all do seem to have our moments) settling for him seemed like a much better idea than being alone.<br /><br />I couldn't help but ask why. Why was "settling" so much better than being "single" and what could being in a relationship offer you that you can't find in the comfort of yourself or a close group of friends--besides the obvious and how important is sex to you that you'll stick around in a relationship that does more mental and emotional damage than good?<br /><br />My friend didn't have an answer and balked at my suggestion that this time could be time taken for herself, to develop the most important relationship anyone will ever have in their entire lives...more important than the ones with your parents, more important than the ones with your extended family and friends, and far more important than those connections with your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">myspace</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">facebook</span> friends list. I suggested that she could take this time to develop a stronger relationship with <em>herself</em> by spending time doing what interests her rather than worry about finding, pleasing, and maintaining the interest of someone else.<br /><br />How much time, really, do we devote to the persuit of others? How much energy do we spend wondering if they like us, if we're attractive to them, good enough, intelligent enough, or just <em>enough</em>? As women, how much time do we then spend trying to live up to those expectations by becoming <em>less</em> of ourselves--a smaller size and a more conplacent voice--in the disillusioned mindset that if we change ourselves and our bodies, others will change how they treat us.<br /><br />We are not empty voids or parts of something needing to be made whole. We don't need to be in a relationship as confirmation that we're good people worthy of someone else's time, energy, and affection. I feel that everyone is deserving of that and I personally don't have that incessant need to go looking for someone else to make my life--my self--any better than it already is.<br /><br />Now as for me, I feel like women could spend every minute of every day in efforts solely for others or just <em>thinking</em> about it and that's not to say that living a little for others is a horrible idea but I think it's important to remember to live a little each day just for yourself. Even if that little bit means unpacking all your crap from school, jumping on your bed, and taking a nap in the sun outside your window. :)<br /><br />All that being said--and I feel almost compelled to write this after that near declaration of single status--I don't think there's anything amiss in being with someone who <em>compliments</em> your life and perhaps adds a little more color to it.<br /><br />My best friend is an amazing, talented, and driven woman who I hope one day encounters someone who appreciates her hard-working and down to earth spirit. I think she deserves that.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-13767977533781633322008-05-19T13:54:00.000-04:002008-12-11T16:41:09.332-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7H4DxQ09SdbQ9EBuyNn_PR9zqG3B_CXELod-EeyLHSIoVZrEnRPbElTJTuGpaG6b8dhgF9X8I9R9vkwBa4S0ssrhFnqrtHuKfQUjBHHwFNAvsdtlOpZq9eG4r-ltjPZRKk09kRtqB0Ss/s1600-h/liz+and+holly+small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202157249381448034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7H4DxQ09SdbQ9EBuyNn_PR9zqG3B_CXELod-EeyLHSIoVZrEnRPbElTJTuGpaG6b8dhgF9X8I9R9vkwBa4S0ssrhFnqrtHuKfQUjBHHwFNAvsdtlOpZq9eG4r-ltjPZRKk09kRtqB0Ss/s320/liz+and+holly+small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJaATg_hyLITtiNlYVZKThB8MpA5tdSmcLYpGfjvvAs1gk6cT_9dIdrdpE611uV4mVqs1VYAh2BkjiGYaCFwR8zRysEKqJ9vZ4Is5Ijgf8HUSgfS8zYvvBTXOAL5E-tIs_f2NDTvdl4g/s1600-h/liz+and+holly.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div>Last night I curled up in bed and did something I haven't had time to do in months--I picked up one of my mother's magazine's (this month's edition) and read for fun. I came across an article about a forty-something woman struggling with her own concepts of aging. The woman she saw in the mirror just didn't fit with the woman she felt and thought she was. She complained about it to her father who stood her before a mirror with his hands on her shoulders and explained that we will forever be unable to see our true selves because "our spark" gets lost in our reflections. Nothing will ever compare to the experience of being and we will never see ourselves as we are unless we learn to look through the eyes of another.</div><br /><div></div><div>I had a boyfriend in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">high school</span> who used to call me "beautiful soul" in German. Although his part in my life was drastically short-lived, the name resonated in my head and became something I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unintentionally</span> aspired to be. I asked him why he'd begun calling me that (although I'm now sure it was just something he did with girls) he simply replied that "You are exactly who you are and you don't pretend or want to be anything else...that's beautiful." Now, putting all of S****'s later transgressions aside (he did drugs, dropped out of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">high school</span>, traveled across country, came back and asked if I was disappointed I hadn't tried to change him--the answer, no), maybe our 15 year old selves were onto <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">something back</span> then. If nothing else, he gave me my first glimpse of what it was to see yourself through the eyes of a much-less-critical someone else and recognize positive attributes--something we often forget to do.</div><br /><div>It's amazing how easy it is to forget that the people we see ourselves as in our mind and within the mirror often lack that intangible "spark" and fire that others are able to recognize. We forget to give ourselves credit for all of our effort, good intentions, and for being...well...ourselves. Who can be yourself better than you? :)</div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057722541434653271.post-50556589888845746482008-05-14T11:45:00.000-04:002008-05-14T12:06:36.589-04:00I've learned...It's inevitable that you'll encounter a number of toads along the way. Some might help you learn a little more about yourself--how your strength and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">resiliency</span> can shine through even in the most unhappy circumstances. Others will teach you a thing or two about what you don't particularly care for in another individual.<br /><br />Sometimes toads can be decieving and weeding out genuine people from those who play pretend can take time/energy. But in some cases, thankfully, possible toads weed themselves out for you. For that, I'm glad.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16433444793057921413noreply@blogger.com0