Ironing Board Nemesis?

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"Here you go, Mom - I made you a picture so you'd always look at it and think about how mad you got!" She announced with great pride in her merriest voice.

I'd been working for 4 days on a painting.  4 days!  I'd read up on this neat-o technique that I just couldn't wait to try.  Got out the canvas I'd been saving, the glass beads medium that cost me an arm and a leg, and a whack of paint.  Off I went, playing and developing and turning this blank bit of taut cloth into something that I thought was going to be the best thing I'd done yet.  I was so thrilled with the way that this piece was turning out!

I carefully placed the acrylic skins where I wanted them, attending to details and making sure that things were "just so'.

I poured on a layer of polymer medium to make the watery part of the painting shiny and crackly.

I put the piece in the laundry room to cure.

On the ironing board.

Which wasn't level. 

Which made the dang polymer bleed a thick, pimply line of gloss into an area it wasn't SUPPOSED to go!

Well, that did it.  My perfectionist self reared its ugly head and started procuring (in a muttery sort of way) that colorful vocabulary that is rewarded in childhood with Ivory soap.  I picked at it.  I prodded.  I examined.  I fumed.  I criticized.

I did the dishes and vented to my family.

My husband took us for ice cream.  He's my hero and that's all there is to it.

Darling girl that she is, my daughter drew me a picture to commemorate my first "mistake", which now hangs on my basement wall beside my work area.  (No, really - nothing like this has happened in my 5 years of painting!)  I am standing beside a wilted painting, arms ended in tight fingers, and above my head is a pitch-black squiggle of fuming anger.  I have on the most impossible frown.  I'm also 25 pounds lighter.  It's a great picture.

The erroneous painting cured, and through some creative miracle hidden from my understanding, I was able to salvage the piece.  It may even be accurate to say that it looks better than it did before Mistake Day.

And now I have a wonderful hand-drawn "snapshot" of that moment when I perfectionism won out over the beautiful influences of crooked ironing boards.  (What a good reminder that I don't need an eraser.)

A Mantra for Tenacity

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The first invite to share my work in a marketplace was offered recently, as some of you may recall.  This morning, when I opened my email, it turned out that this offering was rescinded since so many of the vendors are having financial trouble and are pulling out of the fair.  What a disappointment!  My heart skipped a beat, to be sure.  I was so looking forward to being there!  I spent about 5 minutes wallowing in that lovely pool of self-pity that we all enjoy now and again, and then I pursued other avenues.  What else was out there?  Turns out that people get ready for Christmas artisan fairs right about now - in August!  It's so hard to wrap my head around that one, but I suppose it makes sense.  "Be prepared" thought the ex-girl scout.

I can't say this getting-off-my-hiney-after-having-been-kicked thing is a habit yet.  I have too often let fear stand in my way.  I suppose that's why I have only begun to share my artistic work with the world this year.  It's my full intention to make it a habit, though, let me tell you.  There's no way that setbacks will ever keep me down again!  At least, that's the plan.  Marva Collins had it right when she said, "Fail to plan, and plan to fail."  How's that for a little well-worn teacher-speak.  It works for me!

What is your tenacity mantra?

Toast and a Post

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I just threw some Midnight French Toast in the oven.  Yesterday was my husband's first day working from home.  His company recently decided that having a real office with real rent was really boring, and told it's people (the ones it didn't "lay off") they'd have to work at home.  Although it left us both feeling apprehensive (we are not fans of change), it's fun having him here.  His breaks mean popping into whatever room I'm in for a kiss or a little conversation.  So I made gingersnaps, attempted cornbread, and put together some Midnight French Toast for breakfast today.  It's really nice to have your best friend at home - and at the same time you are home!  A double blessing, to be sure.
I wonder if baking for our families is something of a lost art, like letter-writing.  (I can't remember the last time I spontaneously sat down with any sort of frilly stationary to write a letter with a PEN - not counting the thank you notes I wrote after the wedding). I did just pull the French toast out of the oven, though, and my family is merrily munching away.

My mom stayed home with us kids, and although it meant a lot of sacrifices for my folks, she always had ready for us the yummiest food.  Pea soup and cornbread for lunch in the winter, hot chocolate with tiny coloured marshmallows after school, and the cookie jar was bottomless.  I have a very different lifestyle.  It's hard to measure up to what she did for us - the house is never clean enough around here - but I try to cook and bake for my family as much as I can.  It's a little like painting in the kitchen.