FINALLY!

After months of packing, moving, unpacking, organizing, and muddling through new account changes, I'm finally able to get into my blog! Whew! I was sweating bullets for a couple weeks, but I figured out a "work-around" with no help from the techies at Google, or anyone else on those forums! Oh sure, a couple of pseudo-techies thought they had the answer but NOOOOOO! Yours truly figured it out and here I am. And they thought they could keep me out. Ha! Just watch me now!

Maggie Moo Head

September 16 is the start of the Jewish High Holy Days, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It’s the start of the Jewish New Year. Part of the preparation is to ask for forgiveness from anyone you may have wronged during the previous year. To whatever extent possible, we want to begin the year with a clean slate – and without anyone harboring a grudge against us. One should also be quick to forgive those who have wronged them. Judaism has common sense principals. Why not forgive those who have wronged us? Why not begin every year with a clean slate? However, I have been recalling something that was a long time ago (very long) to someone who I mistreated. Her name was Margaret.

I was in the fourth grade. (I said it was very long!)  Margaret lived on the other street around the corner from my house and went to the Catholic School. I didn’t know her personally—only through my other friends. She was overweight, and kinda nerdy, not as “hip” as we were, and definitely not as cool. They called her Maggie Moo Head. So we cruelly taunted and teased her as kids can do. I chimed along. “Maggie Moo Head” we would shout when she appeared outside. And we would laugh—at her expense. She stuck out her tongue at us, and that was even funnier. But her feelings had to be hurt. Today it would be classified as bullying. And I knew what it felt like to be the other end of teasing youngsters. Berger was my maiden name which was continually transformed into “cheeseburger” and even worse. It didn’t feel good. But that didn’t stop me as a tormentor. Part of the growing up process, I suppose. To be part of a gang and especially as an only child, friends and acceptance were important to me. Even at the expense of Margaret.

So, here we are now adults. I moved away from Peoria and that neighborhood long ago. I don’t know what happened to those kids way back then. I don’t know what happened to Margaret. I hope she was able to get past the teasing and move on, too. I hope she found love and acceptance. I wish I could apologize for those days of yelling Maggie Moo Head. This happened many years ago yet I am still regretful. I can’t take it back, but I can reflect and learn. I grew up and got to know what it really means to be hurt by others—even those who you love the most—it’s not fun.

Judaism teaches “Be loving to your neighbor as you would yourself.” “Do unto others…” is the Golden Rule. One doesn’t need to practice a religion or even believe in anything to practice being kind. Why wait until the end of a year to ask forgiveness or to forgive? Why wait until we have a slate that needs to be cleaned? If we live by the Golden Rule daily, then it’s just common sense.

Instant Artist!

I had to share this. My new favorite photo app is PhotoArtista Oil. This iPhone app makes you an instant artist!  And it’s easy to master in a few minutes. You can load your photos from your album, or take new ones. It’s not a free app, it cost me a whopping $2.99. And there’s an add-on called Sketch that of course, I had to have. Another $2.99. That's a bargain, right?  Take a look at the photos that I altered in just a few minutes.  

HOW TO READ A BOOK

Hello, my name is Sydney and I am a lifetime student. This also makes me a lifetime bibliophile.  My library is expansive. In fact, Amazon owes me a thank you letter! IMHO. When the first Kindle came on the market, I was first in line. Ditto with the Kindle Fire. And of course, I still buy hard copies of used books, art, and writing books. How can you not? However, that’s not my true focus here. I want to share how I read a book; or, more accurately, how I “decorate” the pages.

When I am reading I have a highlighter and a pen in hand (or finger on the Kindle screen); I am in “discussion” with the author inside the margins. The pages become adorned with my underlining, asterisks, and highlights to create a kind of personal topography.  The term for this is marginalia. Writing notes in the white space on the page. It helps me to digest and interpret the text and to remember certain words, phrases, and ideas.  It is my form of study and reference. Nerdy, huh? On my Kindle I can highlight and type notes for later printing. The Kindle developers included this function because of me and countless others who also mark up their books. But, it’s nothing new.

For centuries, authors such as Emerson, Keats, Melville, Twain, Poe and Kerouac practiced marginalia. In the 1944 Democratic Review, Edgar Allen Poe said “In getting my books, I have been always solicitous of an ample margin; this not so much through any love of the thing in itself, however agreeable, as for the facility it affords me of penciling suggested thoughts, agreements, and differences of opinion, or brief critical comments in general.”

The margins of written pages speak to me like a blank canvas. Marginalia changes the meaning of the text is into something even more meaningful. A well-read book is essentially transformed into a whole new art form.


"A child her wayward pencil drew
On margins of her book;
Garlands of flower dancing elves,
Bud, butterfly, and brook,
Lessons undone, and plum forgot,
...Seeking with hand and heart
The teacher whom she learned to love
Before she knew t'was Art. " ~Louisa May Alcott

I Hate Mother's Day

I have hated Mother’s Day for decades. My mother was tough. She wasn’t appreciative. Other mother’s would gush at the mere thought of a child’s gift or card. They would state things like “Don’t buy anything for me!” or, upon opening a gift, “You didn’t have to buy me anything!” Not my mother. She was difficult at best. And I always acknowledged Mother’s Day with a gift, a card, flowers, and then out to dinner we would go. But not before the criticism. Nothing was ever good enough. “Oh, that’s what you bought me, what will I do with that?” or “What kind of a card is that?” were typical responses to me, her only child. I would be crushed and my ego damaged every year on Mother’s Day.

So, I grew to loathe Mother’s Day. I would dread it and then look for a generic card that didn’t gush of love and caring. I didn’t feel it. Not until the later years, when she was well into her eighties. Mom moved away to be with “her family” in Wisconsin. I sent her flowers, cookie bouquets, and cards. But then, I didn’t get the same reaction as in the past. She may have thought it but she did thank me on the obligatory phone call. Then of course told me how she gave the cookies away and that hurt my feelings, too.

At age 91 mom fell and she spent the last years of her life in and out of continuous care facilities and rehab centers. She finally gave up healing and died at 5:32 a.m., Oct. 12, 2011. Two days before her 93rd birthday. My last words to her were “I love you”. And she replied back “I love you”.

This is the first year without my mother on Mother’s Day. That gives me another reason to hate Mother’s Day; because I miss her terribly. I do. I really do.

Mini Rant

Yes. I am working. This was the answer that I gave to my friend last Friday when she asked me what I was doing on Saturday. “I’m working.” “What do you mean, you’re working?” She asked. I told her that I would be at the studio as usual. “Well, she said, “That’s not really working.” “You won’t be going to your (day) job”. I was appalled at her answer and attitude. She continued “You’re making your art, that’s not working, because you’re doing what you want to be doing”. Huh? Yes, that is what I want to do. Yes, it is my passion. Yes, I do happen to make money with my art, but even if I didn’t, I am still working. It’s work that I love. Art is my life’s work and what I was meant to do.


My friend works at a Monday through Friday, 9-5 salaried job. So do I. My weekend “job” is creating art. Gleefully. Since when can’t people love their job? Since when does one have to make money at their job? This country would fall flat without people who volunteer for non-monitorial jobs. Those workers gain genuine benefits—way beyond a paid salary.

Since when is it only a “real” job if you don’t like what you’re doing? Balls. When I was a stay-at-home mom—that was working. When I did all the cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, nursing, clothes washing, ironing, …ing, …ing…ing, with no salary—that was working! And I’m sure my friend would agree with me because back in the day, she did that gig, too.

So, dear friends, please reframe your thinking. When I’m in the studio, I am working. I am not available to talk for hours about nonsense. I am not available to go shopping. Or to meet you for lunch. Comments to me such as “oh you can do that later” or, “that’s not really working” are disrespectful. It makes me think that maybe I’m not living my life like you think I should. I would not even think to suggest that when you are at your 9-5 salaried job you are not working. I would not call you at a whim at all hours during your workday and expect you to drop everything to talk endlessly about who is going to be kicked off “Dancing with the Stars”, or about your adorable and brilliant grandchildren. When I’m at my weekend “job” creating art, please believe me when I tell you that I’m working—passionately.

My Father's Shirts

I stole them from my father. I had too because they were fantastic. First, I slipped into the bedroom and looked in the dresser drawer. If not there, I opened the closet to peer at the top shelf. There they were, precisely stacked and wrapped—fresh from the dry cleaners. Dad wore white shirts daily when he managed a furniture store. But, it wasn’t the shirts that I loved—they were just the vehicle. That neat shirt pile held hidden treasures that I desperately sought after. I looked almost breathless at the new stack that had arrived from the cleaners that week in brown paper package. I was on a mission.


I positioned the desk chair in front of the closet to make me high enough to reach and removed the whole shirt stack at once. I placed it carefully on the bed, and removed the paper security sleeves (similar to those placed on the hotel toilets—the practice that I am highly suspicious of). The papers were of little use to me so I quickly breached that security and swiftly deposited them in the wastebasket. It was the precious pearl inside that I wanted. Eliminating that ridiculous paper would allow me easier access. I knew Dad wouldn’t mind—the theft was perfectly understandable given my artistic nature—it was and still is one of my two passions. My anxious eyes could see the prize at the end of the square fabric package in all its glory—the illustrious shirt cardboard! Oh, it was heavenly—smooth and silky white on one side, with greyish brown cardboard on the other; and the 8x14 size was sturdy enough and perfect for any art project that I could imagine. These cardboard gems could be a surface for a painting, or cut into pieces to add to something. They took part in Valentine’s cards and boxes. They were signs and they were backings. They were flawless. I wasted no time.

One by one, careful not to wrinkle each shirt, I slipped each out leaving the shirt on its own, flopping around without secured stiffness. But they had the security of each other in the stack and I was sure that they felt better without the rigid confinement. I was doing them a huge favor, those shirts! Back on the chair I held the pilfered floppy stack sans cardboards and paper security strips and replaced them prudently on the closet shelf and closed the door. They would be just fine waiting there for Dad. No harm, no foul.

Off I went with my fresh cardboard stack—my imagination swimming with project ideas. I would proudly show Dad my finished art and he would smile and pat me on the back, knowing that cardboard had once supported his shirts that were now floppy. Yes, the shirts had been left unprotected, but my father’s knowing-smile ensured that my ego was protected and as sturdy as my precious shirt cardboards. He knew about my passion and that I was following it—even if it culminated in petty theft.
The “protected” hotel toilet seats however are another story.

I am the one who ...

I am the one who loves purple
I am the one who plans and organizes
I am the one who sees shapes and designs in odd places
I am the one who sees textures in a hillside of trees
I am the one who realizes there are no coincidences
I am the one who tries to pay attention to what the Universe is telling me
I am the one who wonders what others are doing
I am the one who is curious
I am the one who worries about the children, the grandchildren, the dogs
I am the one who tries desperately not to think "what if?"
I am the one who gets annoyed at noise that invades my space
I am the one who loves going into "the zone"
I am the one who sneezes after eating chocolate, but eats it anyway
I am the one who says "I don't give a shit"
I am the one who has the potty mouth whose favorite word is fuck
I am the one who goes for the shock value
I am the one who teases
I am the one who eavesdrops on conversations
I am the one who wants color instead of beige
I am the one who doesn't understand how people can be bored
I am the one who gets annoyed over poor customer service
I am the one who refuses to say the words "I hate"
I am the one who can't tolerate racism
I am the one who loves art retreats
I am the one who has too many ideas
I am the one who loves dogs
I am the one who loves waking up to singing birds
I am the one who loves hearing the distant train whistle
I am the one who has zero tolerance for what I call "stupid shit"
I am the one who always asks "why?"
I am the one who loves popcorn
I am the one who devours books
I am the one who loves projects
I am the one who wants to help people in need
I am the one who wants to do it all
I am the one who loves education
I am the one who loves thinking about Italy
I am the one who doesn't like darkness
I am the one who needs the sun
I am the one who loves to sing along
I am the one who knows the lyrics to every Beatles song ever written
I am the one who loves morning coffee
I am the one who loves to dance
I am the one who loves nature and hiking in the woods
I am the one who loves good movies
I am the one who loves art

THE BOX

The month of February is usually crappy weather wise—bitter cold wind, freezing temps, snow, ice, grey skies—plain ugly with anticipation of Spring. However, the month of February also holds blissful childhood memories of my Valentine’s Days of yore. For artist-child Sydney, the day was much bigger—it held the perfect opportunity for another art op—an altered and magnificently adorned shoebox.

In grade school, shoeboxes were transformed into mailboxes for store-bought, signed Valentines between classmates. If Sydney was lucky, a written sentiment besides just a name, such as “Love, Richard, or Sincerely yours, Robby” was smiling material for daydreams. That was the icing on the heart cake, but even that was insignificant compared to THE BOX. The art supplies were few and simple; a raw shoebox from mother’s closet, tin foil, scotch tape, a knife, embellishments, and of course, Elmer’s glue.

The first task was the cutting of the slit in the lid for the “mail” slot. Mother held the knife and made the slice. Then Sydney went to work creating, designing, and decorating a perfect, most Valentine-worthy vessel. First, she covered the box with tin foil for bling. Using Elmer’s, Sydney glued hearts, cutout pictures of cupid, candy hearts, and paper doilies. Once, she created the box to resemble a house with the mail slot at the roof ridge.

Sydney selectively chose a perfect Valentine for each—her friends and cute boys would get the “finest” of the packaged lot, with those that were just “ok” for the others. Just before the big day, Sydney carefully scribed, addressed, and sealed the envelopes.

Feb.14. The boxes were strategically positioned on students’ desks, which made focusing on schoolwork impossible. Sydney scanned the others’ boxes for future inspiration. That afternoon the class sashayed through the desk aisles to deliver the Valentines— sliding one into each decorated slot. The treasures were to be saved for the big reveal at home after school—Sydney thought that was unfair and the anticipation painful.

Finally, at home, she anxiously, yet carefully opened each lick-sealed envelope. They went into two piles—pile one for cherishing, and pile two for tossing. Valentine’s Day was a yearly favorite for Sydney. However, the actual Valentines—even the favorites, the special ones, and even the most cherished were anti-climactic—merely secondary to the art-op—the designing of THE BOX.

Bella Buttons!

One of my back-burner projects is now front-burner- worthy and cooking with a full head of steam. Recently, my manager (and friend) Andrea entered the craft market with her nimble knitting (say that 10 times fast) fingers and started creating scarves. I suggested that she knit also neck warmers because they are faster, more cost-efficient, and just a little different.


They just cross at the neckline, fastened with a button—created by yours truly! Andrea made her craft show premier last week and the neck warmers sold like hotcakes! My buttons were also a hit—and Bella Buttons was officially born. Didn’t we love rummaging through our mother’s button boxes? My mother’s was actually a big round tin. I loved when she said to me, “Go find a button this size” to sew onto something. Sifting through that tin was like a mini treasure hunt. Therefore, with that in mind, my craft display was a big box of newly born buttons!

Why Bella?

1. It means beautiful in Italian, (I’m still on a high from my Italy trip with my “Bella” Annie)
2. I get off on alliteration
3. It sounds like belly button, and that makes me smile. But I digress.

Here’s the fruits of my labor (ha-ha, get it? Labor? Belly button, *sigh*)