Playing around with design #5

And here is the last image in this ‘series’  Thanks for your thoughts and input. 🙂

 

Advertisements

Playing around with design

So lately, I’ve been trying to learn a bit about design.

Turns out there is a lot to learn. But I have learned a few little tricks.

Last week I did a little series of creepy/scary/mystery-ish type images which I’ll post over the next few days.

Here’s the first one.

Feel free to share your thoughts, offer advise or to criticize them – feedback is super cool and I love it.

Love me, love me (for God’s sake will you just love me already?)

love me, love meLet’s be honest, to be a writer, an actor, singer or any type of ‘creative’ you have to have a pretty big ego. It’s not wrong, it just is. Perhaps it’s God’s way of helping us deal with all the rejection, finger-pointing and the fact that we were looked upon as the weird geek all through high school.

Most people aren’t going to understand us. They aren’t going to understand why certain sounds might send us into a state of impassioned annoyance. Or why we’re so interested in talking to strangers and fascinated by the conversation at the next table. Or why we have that “I’m taking notes” look on our faces half the time. But that’s okay. We’re not here to be understood. We’re here to create. We’re here to enrich other people’s lives (hopefully) with the things we create. Whether it’s a song, a performance, a painting or a story – ours is a mission of finding beauty and meaning in life and reporting back. Maybe we’re also the note takers for the current culture – the predictors of what the future may hold. Some think so…

But what we aren’t is the world’s darling. We aren’t here to be loved. To gain approval. Or to be the homecoming queen. The world isn’t interested in our neediness. And yes, we’ve got it – in spades. And if the world (or any part thereof) decides to love you, it will be on its own terms, not yours.

The very fact that we create something doesn’t mean that it’s great or even good. And when it’s not we should be humble enough to accept that when someone points it out. We should be grateful that there are people in our lives who will be honest with us, tell us the truth and insist we give only our best work. Because in our best work we give what we are meant to give – an undeniable truth, a pure note, a perfect color – whatever it is, you know it when you’ve got it. When you’ve reached it. When you’ve created it.

The world does need our work. It is important. We can only give that when we put on our big girl and big boy pants and dedicate ourselves to it. And keep the griping and hurt feelings to a minimum.

Though there is the occasional anomaly – trust me you won’t:

  • Pen the great American novel on a first draft
  • Paint like Picasso after one art class
  • Win an Academy Award for your first performance
  • Sing like Caruso (or Beyoncé) after completing Music 101

If you don’t put in the work, you’ll never develop your craft enough to get there. But if you do dedicate yourself to it – earnestly and without insisting on constant love and adoration for doing your job – the world may love you after all. Or at least your work.

Writer Chick

copyright 2014

Pain, Art & Random Thoughts


Pain. There are a lot of opinions about it. Particularly in artistic circles. Are you sensing a trend here? Some deep thoughts? Perhaps. As may be obvious I have been thinking a lot in the last few days about the other things one considers when they have time to think. Usually life demands so much of us and gives us so little time for ourselves that we don’t get the chance to ponder things. During my time off from the blog, I traveled among some writers – or maybe less traveled among, than more went along for the ride. I went to new blogs, read, commented – took on the mantle of the persona of my other blog and experienced what it felt like not to be Writer Chick. It had been something I’d been planning for a long while, actually and would have happened much sooner, but snafus in the freelance department, friends having fatal accidents, then new blogs to push back the grief… And so on. Many things that ate my energy and took my attention. Many things that changed my perspective forever and whatever the previous perspective was I couldn’t tell you now, so gone is it, so never was, is it – not even a shadow remains of it.

So, I lined up some friends to write me some posts and off I went. It was a curious world to travel in, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I liked it. I found it filled with wonderful writing and also huge egos, odd ideas, isms, prescribed methods of thinking and a lot of form over function – still the writing was awfully damn good and interesting and in some cases, exciting. Certainly inspiring and challenging. I felt a child among savvy, sophisticated thinkers, unable to divine their in jokes and witty repartee and felt like I wandered about this particular part of the blogosphere with my virtual mouth agape, jaw on the floor. An exotic and exhausting vacation – exotic because of the newness, exhausting because for the first time in a very long time I was able to just throw myself into what I consider to be my work. I have written nearly 30 pieces in the last week. Which may not seem like much to some writers but it was an enormous amount for me.

I became almost obessessed with it – and I do think some part of me was owned by it. I would get up in the middle of the night to scribble down this and that – I’d be in the middle of a conversation with someone and a phrase would leap out of me while I was trying to keep up my end of the conversation and still scramble for paper, pen and the words. Exhausting. Draining. Wonderful. And I honestly did worry that when I went back to being Writer Chick it was all going to go away and I would be dashing off memes and jokey lists once again. I’m sure there will always be memes and jokey lists here on this blog but I am also sure that I will not lose whatever it is I gained this past week. Perhaps it was the fruition of these many past months which began last November about seriously pondering how to be what I was, am – a writer. Where it all comes together in one crystalized moment or it could have been the company I kept during that time or a combination of both or something else altogether. No matter how many times a writer is asked where their ideas and inspiration comes from I don’t think any of us can really give the exact answer – from everywhere and nowhere, from all of your experience and the lack thereof, from all of the love you’ve ever felt and all the tears you’ve ever spent, from all the wonderful things that you will discover in the future. From everywhere and everything is now my answer to that question.

Sorry…I digress…yes, back to pain. Here’s the thing – there are many artists out there whether they are writers, painters, dancers, actors, poets, sculptors, and so on who believe that pain is a primary motivation for their art. And I was certainly among them because what is more exquisite than the sharpness of deep pain? And despite it’s awful attendant physical and emotional tearings one does feel alive during it. And I think it is this aliveness that brings this idea to the fore. I think that because great love songs are written in the throes of great loss, great paintings painted at the pique of despair and incredible dances delivered on searingingly painful legs that it is easy to believe it was the pain that forced the beauty through. But I don’t think it’s true.

I think that greatness in a person’s art, whatever the form, comes from all things, all feelings, all interactions and that if pain has any significant part in it, it is because the way an artist works through their pain is with their art. Sort of a Catch-22 I guess. I know when I am in pain it is easier for me to write about it than talk about it or even ironically think about it. It is easier to take that surge of enormous, white hot energy and pour it into something that will eventually, hopefully become beautiful. It is the proverbial making of lemonade from lemons.

So, for all my strange travels and foreign experiences this week, I think my biggest lesson is this: that I do not have to be married to pain to produce beauty. I do not have to have horrible hurt to have depth in my words. I do not have to own a particular emotion more than any other. They all produce that which leads to the thing we eventually create. It was a good lesson. I’m glad I learned it.

And once again, sorry for not being funny, as I intended to be. Though I will keep trying. 😉

Beauty for Beauty

Not long ago, Michael of Smoke & Mirrors bestowed a very prestigious award upon me/my blog. It is called the Arte y Pico Award. My bad, I’d never heard of it and so I went searching the Internet to discover what it meant.

What I learned was that the originator of the Arte y Pico Award is a fabulous woman named Ana, from Uraguay, who creates hand made cloth dolls that are exquisette and beautiful. Wanting to pass on this beauty into the beast that the blogosphere can be, she created this award to acknowledge the beauty that does exist here.

Ana said this about it:
What is the meaning of the expression: Arte y Pico
What is the meaning of the expression: And basically, ironically, it translates into a wonderful phrase in Mexico, “lo maximo.” LOL! It will never find its counterpart in English, but if it HAD to, it would be something like, Wow. The Best Art. Over the top.

Ana’s wish was to have it paid forward and to propogate a chain of beauty and art throughout cyberspace. And isn’t that the dream of any artist? To see beauty and creativity blossom and grow in all directions? I am honored and humbled to have been given this award, more than I can say.

And now as a recipient, my job is to pay it forward to the other beauties out there. Choosing recipients was a daunting task because I am allowed only five when I can think of many more than that off the top of my head. The people I chose were all women, intentionally so – maybe I am feeling my ‘I am woman, hear me roar,’ mojo but I think that women contribute so much to the blogosphere and are so natural at spreading the love and beauty that it seemed fitting to me.

So…with great respect and admiration, I have chosen:

Christine of All the Elbows. A wonderfully, original writer, whose talent awes me every time I visit her blog. A kind, funny and caring person, a stay at home mom who nurtures her two beautiful daughters and wonderful husband. Whose imagination will captivate anyone who reads her. She is definitely spreading the beauty out there.

J of Not Just a Housekeeper. Funny, quick, razor-tongued and oh so real. A working mom who not only has the most beautiful adventures with her kids and husband, but helps troubled youths get back on track. She has a heart as big as Montanna and a wit that won’t quit. This lady can make you feel like a trip to Walmart is a grand adventure. Creative? Hell, yeah.

Daisies of Moments. What this woman can do with a camera will melt your heart and give your eyes treats they have not yet seen. Also an accomplished poet and writer, who will touch you with her words and make you feel always welcome and safe. Timeless beauty there, folks.

Jade of Pieces of Jade. This is someone very new to me and I’m so excited to have experienced her work and her exquisitte lines. She is suprising, funny, profound and oh so unique. I can’t believe my luck in having found her. She writes hay[na]ku (A poem of six words. The first line = 1 word, the second line= 2 words and the third line= 3 words) a form of poetry I’d never heard of before and am still trying to get my wits around. I may try my hand at it, but I doubt I’d ever rise to her level of execution. Like her name indicates, she is a jewel.

Simonne of Into the Quiet. This plucky Aussie writer is a beauty inside and out. Sweet as honey and her writing, so spot on. It’s honest, brutal sometimes, but clean and cleansing and never ceases to surprise the reader on the journey. Like the name of her blog indicates, she’s a quiet voice but with deep and lasting impact.

I could honestly go on for pages about these wonderful beauties, but I invite you to go experience them for yourself. I am so happy to be able to give them such an award and I know they will pass it on to others who are just as wonderful, beautiful and creative as they are.

So there you have it ladies, go seek your five recipients and pay forward the beauty and creativity.

The rules are as follows:

1) Pick 5 blogs that you consider deserving of this award; creativity, design, interesting material, and also a contributer to the blogger community, no matter the language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award-winner, has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given them the award itself.

4) Each award winner shows the link to “Arte y pico” blog , so everyone will know the origin of this award.

5) The above rules must be posted within the awarding post.

More Summer Fun

A friend of mine sent me these unbelievable pictures. Yes folks, people actually made these from salt water and sand. Cripes, I can’t make something this good with clay, glue and step by step directions!

I must say though, I wonder what her hair is supposed to be wrapped around.

Why are old people always yelling at kids?

Rampunzel must be at the top of that thing somewhere.

It takes a lot of sand to make a whole kingdom.

What are these little kids so afraid of?

Ah…I get it, the dragon is eating their dad.

I guess I better get my bucket and internet directions and head for the beach – it’s going to take a while to get the hang of this stuff.

WC

My Life, Without a Horse – by cA Hughes

 

When I was five, I wanted a tree swing; also a pony.I would fantasize about it, the pony I mean. I got the tree swing. I sat on it while daydreaming about the pony. Her name would be Cinnamon, as her coat was that same red/orangey-brown color as the spice and she’d have a black mane and tail. My feet’d be muddy and walking her around through tallish grasses.

Gnats and butterflies and dust would dot the air, flecks of gold cresting and dipping in summery sunlight.

Even I, in my imagined yet still filthy gingham, would look lovely and hardy in the country light with Cinnamon in a stately follow.

Straddling Cinnamon, I was happy.Behind my closed eyes, I’d rest my face against her neck and tangle my stubby fingers in her mane. I was hypnotized by the heavy, hollow thud of her hoof-falls as we meandered through the countryside.We communicated in our secret way; she knew me by scent; my breathing, the rise and fall and squeakiness of my voice soothed her spirit. And she’d buck anyone else who attempted to ride, brush or feed her.

She would be mine and only mine.This was the best part because in my life without a horse, there was nothing mine.

I don’t know where this desire for a horse came from. We lived in the city. There were no tall grass fields or creeks or beautiful summer days hazy with shining little bugs that looked like fairies in the setting sunlight. No stands of trees aged with gnarled branches. “Where would we keep a horse?” asked Mother.I said in the garage, desperate. “That would be cruel,” she said. Then her eyes glazed over with a dreamy shine. “Horses need to be in a field, they need to run and graze and have sun on their backs…”

I put a horse on my Christmas lists and asked for one each birthday for the next six years.

“Where did she get such an idea?” My father asked Mother once. He was upset that I had been giving them the silent treatment for three straight days after my seventh birthday.

“All little girls want a horse,” she said.

He chuckled at that. “And why is that?” he asked.

My mother got red in the cheeks and I saw a dark, quick flicker in her eyes- so quick I doubted it the moment I saw it. It happened sometimes, mostly when she was talking to Father about us girls. “They just do,” she said.

I think she was right about that. My daughters have been pleading with their dad and me to get a horse. “Maybe someday,” I say. It is possible since we live in the country. We take walks on streets along the horse ranches nearby and I think, We can get a horse and keep it at a stables. I ask them what they think of the name Cinnamon for a horse.

“I like it,” says the older one.

“Aw, I like Fred,” says the younger.

“Maybe we should get two,” the older says.”Then I can name mine Roses”

“How about three?” say I. “Cinnamon, Roses and Fred.” We like this idea and discuss what our horses would look like- the color of their manes and coats, whether we’d braid their tails with ribbon.

The books I’ve read in which girls had horses, there is no boy-craziness. The girl with a horse does not need anybody. She is independent and free, strong like the legs of her steed. And though beautiful and ethereal, horses do seem somewhat phallic; look at the neck, look at the long face broad at the top; look at how they must be straddled and ridden. A girl conquers the phallus, astride her steed. It can take her to her life; take her away from her life. She is control of her destination and the route there. She is not a princess but a queen. She is not a queen but an outlaw. She is not an outlaw but an explorer, a knight, a cowboy. All of these things and natural and wild.

Free.

copyright cA Hughes