Be Positive, Sarah Jessica!

As I was sulking in my hot tent during the worst art show ever last weekend, I tried to think positively for once instead of crying and/or complaining. I didn't cry, but it was impossible not to complain.

Custer's Last Stand in Evanston, IL might have been an actual art show at one time, but apparently it is officially a flea market now.  I was across from a jewelry stand (big surprise) where EVERYTHING was $5, even the fancy plastic insect keychains. The jewelry drunks were actual drunks this time because it was a street fair, which means beer is fair game at 10 am.  I had another jeweler next to me whose $20 earrings were pretty steep compared to the five buck table, so I felt sorry for her.

The whole sweaty, hot show was more about beer, food and weird music than about art of any kind.  At one point, a native American group about ten feet away from me was pounding the living shit out of their drums while yodel-hollering at the top of their lungs.  I don't mean to be disrespectful, I'm all for cultural experiences.  But it was mind-numbingly loud and repetitive.  I could barely converse with any of the four serious potential customers who entered my booth all day.  Plus, the native American fellows kept demanding that the onlookers dance with them.  "DANCE!  IT'S AN EASY DANCE!  YOU CAN DO IT!!"  All white people deserve to pay for what happened to the people who lived here first.  Apparently it was my turn to take one for the team.

As the crapfest nature of the show began to dawn on us, several shell-shocked artists wandered around quizzing each other in a panic.  "Have you done this show before?  Is it always this bad? Good Lord, this is HORRENDOUS."  We were all first time dumb-dumbs.

Now's about the time that I feel power-sorry for myself and begin dramatically announcing to my husband Joe and my mom that I need a real job while probably crying.  This hasn't been working very well and they don't seem to enjoy it, so I decided to give myself a break.  I was not going to get worked up about it.  It wasn't my fault.  I'd chosen this show because another artist recommended it.  She stopped at my booth briefly to bitch about her spot and to share that she was never doing this show again, which made me really want to push her.  One of those playground girl-pushes where the other girl sits down hard and bites her tongue while I run away.

Instead, I worked hard on my drawing, tried to yell-chat over the tribal music in a non-frightening way with the occasional visitor.  Plus, I stayed very busy fending off weird old guys.

Weird old guy number one was a neighboring artist.  He was the most harmless one of the bunch, and the most freaked out.  He'd traveled pretty far to attend this popsicle stand of a show and kept drifting into my booth, smoking and worry-staring at me.  He was sort of a bug-eyed guy and maybe couldn't help looking weird, but I'd had about enough of, "Hey, how's it going?  Anytime the shoppers want to show up, it's fine with me, heh heh. How are things???"  I eventually yelled at him a little and he left me alone.

Weird old guy number two made plates out of melted pop cans with Jesus and whatnot on them.  He was very proud of his plates and kept coming in my booth to announce that if he doesn't do $4000 in a show it's not worth it.  WHO in the hell is buying $4K of Jesus plates?  I'm rather proud of some of my stuff, but I've never, ever sold that much in one show.  Jesus plate guy had a rather unusual face.  That wasn't holding him back from chatting me up and telling me I look like Sarah Jessica Parker. 

Homely or sexy?  Weird old guy #2 says... both.

Yeah, I know.  When I bartended, I got it all the time.  We both have long faces, big chins and long noses. A lovely combination. I'd rather resemble her from the neck down than the neck up, but c'est la vie.  I tried to make a joke about having her horse face and weird guy #2 agreed, "Yeah, she is kind of homely.  But there's something about her that guys find pretty sexy."  Um, ew and EW.  Stop calling me homely while hitting on me.  You and your pop can plates can shut up.  Later, he told me that he was going to have the Native Americans dedicate a song to me.  That's pretty funny, I'll give him that one.  I considered having the $5 jewelry guys protect me, but luckily, Jesus Plates packed up and left early on Sunday.  This required him to cart his crap the equivalent of three city blocks UP A HILL to his car.  The show was that bad.

The weirdest and oldest guy (somewhere in his 80's, I'd guess) at first seemed harmless with his straw hat, bowtie and fluffy foo-foo dog in his arms.  He had nothing to do other than hang around and decide whether to unload his lifetime supply of crazy on me.  I heard about his dog's breast cancer and the girl who he'd like me to draw but can't because they are from another time.  This time around, she's too young and being programmed to stay away from him.  He was the strangest combination of flirty and gay I've ever seen.  I think he may have been as confused inside as I felt listening to him.  He kept leering at me while spinning his crazy story web and listing all the astrological signs he was most compatible with.  I thought he would never, ever, ever leave.

The grand finale was waiting in my car for 45 minutes while bored volunteers weakly begged the throngs of drunk people to clear out of the art area of the street fair so we could drive our cars in.  I had taken a cue from Jesus Plates and tore down my stuff early.  I happened to be standing right near the exit pass chick when she got the okay to start handing them out, so I was FIRST in line.  Yay!  The guy at the gate saw my magic blue ticket and let me right in, where I drove one inch every few minutes through the crowd until another volunteer ran at me in mid conniption screaming at me to stop.  His walkie talkie was screeching "All the artists KNOW they CAN'T drive into the area until ALL the pedestrians have LEFT."  I got the impression that this was specifically for me to hear, but too bad, the gate guy let me in.  Conniption guy made me pull over so I could helplessly watch people ignore his pleas to walk on the sidewalk for 45 minutes. When I FINALLY got to move up, all sorts of cars were pouring in ahead of me from the side gates and I nearly lost my shit. 

My assigned spot was under some train tracks in an area that would make a perfect movie setting for a homeless drug deal and/or assault.  Because of the tracks, there was a huge bottle neck in my area that shouldn't have been a problem if I'd been FIRST like I was SUPPOSED TO BE.  Fortunately, I chose this spot for myself from an online map, so I can't be mad at anyone but me.  Apparently, I forgot what the railroad symbol looks like.

Actual online map where I picked my crappy spot.

That was really the only time I got upset. I screamed the f-word and the cop on a segway right next to me laughed a little.  It was sort of funny, really. See?  This is a brand new attitude for me. 

Since I had been away from Joe all Father's Day weekend, he took Monday off.  Instead of letting me pamper him, he suggested that we go through my display, which has been looking shoddier and shoddier, causing me to complain about it a lot.  He helped me redesign the whole thing and I'm really excited for this weekend's show in Arlington Heights.  And Joe gets to feel hopeful that he'll hear a little less complaining, at least about my crappy display.

See what happens when I try to stay positive?  Okay, sort of positive.

A bad sports mom gets a hug from Lepoleon

I met Lepoleon Swopes through Joey’s 3rd grade football team.  I fell in love with him and he made me wish I were cooler, as many people do.

Especially in the first years of drawing full time after getting canned from my corporate job, I tried to draw my pencil portraits in public whenever possible, hoping to attract new customers.  I probably should have drawn the line at my kids’ sports games, but I’m a shameless capitalist.  Plus, as much as I want to be a supportive mom and lovingly stare at my sons as they do everything, there can be a lot of down time before your young kids get in on the team action.

Mostly, I’m not a big sports fan, anyway.  Don’t even get me started on baseball when nothing happens until all of a sudden a kid makes a mistake and everyone is rounding the bases, rubbing the poor kid’s nose in it and later discussing how everything would have been okay if that one damn kid had caught/hit/thrown the ball better.  My feelings are officially hurt for every kid who screws up and I’m just too sensitive for baseball. Except for tee-ball when everyone gets a turn and we cheer for everything and everyone.  That’s my kind of competition.

Football was easier on my emotions because I couldn’t tell what was happening.  Plus, I loved seeing my Joey in his first set of football pads.  With a 6’8 father and a sturdy Swedish mother, Joey was always tall for his age and built like a truck.  When he first put on those big shoulder pads, his already over-sized, Baby Huey frame was thrust into the future, time travel to his looming manhood.  My baby suddenly looked so huge and tough, and he knew it.  

Watching football requires a gene that I lack. Joey is on the offensive line and locating him in the pile of flailing kids was impossible to my untrained eye.  I’d watch for awhile, then give up and draw.  On the way home, my husband Joe would accusingly ask, “Did you see that block Joey made in the second quarter when the score was this and the play was that?”  I can’t fake it with Joe.  He knows. 

At one of Joey’s football games, another mom was sitting nearby with her girls.  They were actually watching the game while I was drawing without even pretending to pay attention.  They chatted with me a bit about my work and I ended up doing a memorial portrait and prayer cards for their uncle, Chester Swopes.  I thought Chester was quite handsome and I was thrilled to add his portrait to my portfolio.

Someone once emailed me, “I don’t see any dark skinned people on your web site.”  This was embarrassing and true; almost all my clients check the Caucasian census box.  I got a little overly excited when Chester Swopes’ lovely niece, Jacqueline, asked me to draw him.  I was honored and proudly displayed his portrait at my shows.  I was hoping he’d be a handsome lure to a better melting pot of work.

The real prize in drawing Chester, was meeting his brother, Lepoleon.

Lepoleon called me on the phone to tell me how much he enjoyed his little brother’s portrait and I was instantly smitten.  He had a melodic, lilting voice full of warmth, as if he was always on the verge of telling the punchline of a joke.  

There is something about an elderly black man that humbles me.  I always think to myself - here is someone who has experienced things that I couldn’t begin to understand. 

In a rich voice straight out of the movies,  Lepoleon praised my portrait of his brother and told me what a wonderful person Chester was, a leader in his community and church.  Lepoleon was so proud of his brother and seemed to let that pride wash over me too, making me feel like he’d been rooting for me to do a good job.  He said that it seemed like I knew what I was doing and that he hoped I could help him with another project.  Lepoleon explained that he had a drawing of his grandfather that a young girl had drawn for him.  It needed some work and he hoped that I would be willing to take a stab at it. 

I couldn’t wait to meet him, and when Lepoleon came over with his drawing, I couldn’t get enough of him.  He was a wiry little man with a rubbery, animated face and eyes that snap and spark.  He could have been 60, he could have been 80, in that ageless way some people have.  He would rub his dry hands together slowly while he talked, rocking a little bit and revving up his story.  I was transfixed.  I wanted to be about five years old and climb into his lap while he talked.  Of course it would have startled and crushed him if I'd actually done it, but you know what I mean.  I loved him and I wanted him to love me because I’m just inappropriate and greedy that way.

Lepoleon had never met his grandfather and there were no photographs of him in existence.  In anticipation of an upcoming family reunion, Lepoleon was gathering photos for a family tree.  Wouldn’t it be a fine surprise for his family to include a drawing of his grandfather?  The girl who had attempted the drawing was a fledgling artist in the family.  One of Lepoleon’s cousins remembered their grandfather well, and said that the girl’s drawing was a close resemblance.  But the eyes were wrong and it was a little rough. 

I worked on the drawing while Lepoleon leaned over my shoulder, giving me instruction.  I felt like a police sketch artist.  As I would add a wrinkle here, an adjustment there, Lepoleon would make rumbling pleased noises and say, “Nooowwww, we’re gettin’ somewhere.  Now, I’m seein’ him.” 

When we were through, Lepoleon sat back with a slow, big grin.  “Well what do you know,” he said softly, with a little catch in his voice.  “There’s my grand-dad.  I’ve never seen him before.” 

I don’t know that I’ve ever had a more rewarding moment as an artist. 

Later, Lepoleon decided to bring me a photo of his grandmother to add to the drawing of his grandfather. 

“Wow,” I said, surprised by the stern looking woman.  “She looks like she had a lot on her mind.”

“Well, I 'spect she sure did,” Lepoleon agreed.  “She had herself eleven kids!” 

“Maybe she was thinking about all that laundry,” I guessed.  Lepoleon laughed and hopefully decided I was hilarious.  I drew his grandmother separately and then digitally put them together for his family tree. 

Lepoleon was delighted when he came to pick up his family masterpiece.  “Everyone is going to be so surprised… they’ll get such a big kick out of this,” he said with extra warmth and asked me what he owed.  He paid me from a big wad of cash in his fanny pack. 

“Wow!” I gasped playfully, “You’re loaded.” 

He chuckled and said it was money from his shop.  “I’m a barber,” he said with a little pride and maybe a little fatigue.  I don’t think I could have pictured a better job for him.  I wished I could sit in the corner of his shop and listen to the exchanges that must go on… all the talk that’s so full of history and culture and connection and laughter.  White people don’t ever seem to connect in the joyful way that black people do.  I know you’re not supposed to say black, but I think black people are so much cooler than white people.  White people don’t see each other and think, “Hey, awesome!  White guy!”  We think, his car is better.  Or my car is better.  We are idiots.

We are not cool.

“I’m so glad you’re happy,” I told Lepoleon, feeling a little shy and choked up.  “I loved drawing for you.”

“Oh honey, I love you, too,” he said, and he gave me a tight hug.  I’m a big hugger, as you know, but this was different and special and unexpected… this loving hug that reached across culture and generations and my sheltered upbringing. It was just so touching to me.

Every time I’m finished with a project that has involved a few meetings, especially when the subject is so important, it’s hard.  We look at each other and think, “Well, what now?  Is this good-bye?”  There’s emotion there, sometimes.  A connection.  And then it is over and we move on with our lives.  I told Lepoleon to please come back and tell me all about the reunion.  I didn't want him to go.

I wish I could give an afternoon with Lepoleon to everyone I know.  He would make you smile and want to be a little kinder, because you'd want to make him proud.

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Mood swinging with a biker chick

While I’m dripping sweat or cursing my shivery lack of a jacket at an art show, there are hundreds of people wandering around.  As much as I love to whine about being ignored, many of them chat with me.  Some are pretty interesting and/or hilarious.  In one case, that would be a leather-clad understatement. 

People sometimes have an emotional reaction to my pencil portraits.  Many a visitor has cried in my booth (see, I’m not the only one) out of family love or loss, picturing their own special somebody.  Just because they cry, doesn’t mean they call me.  They usually don't.  But at least they get it.

With a bazillion people at up to three shows a month, it's a blur after awhile.  In my first year or two of drawing full time, I apparently met a woman at an Arts in the Park event.  The only thing I remember about that particular outdoor show was that beer was plentiful starting at 10 am, plastic cups in almost everyone’s hand. 

A couple years later, I got a phone call.  “Remember me?” a husky, gruff voice asked.  “You know, with my husband and the Harleys?” 

I have a horrendous memory.  It is feeble.  I can’t remember why I’ve come into a room, when I am just reentering that room after just forgetting why I was there.  My initial fear of motherhood was that I would forget I had a kid. 

  

I had no idea who this biker chick was.  So I lied. “Of course I remember you!”  Why should I hurt her feelings?  Plus I am always eager to tap into new markets that I fantasize will lead to my eventual fame.  Motorcycles aren’t cheap and there is a whole consumer subculture there, like Deadheads or Jimmy Buffet or being a Republican.

From the moment she walked in my front door, Harley Diane was a bleached blast of in-your-face personality.

"I need you to draw THIS," she rasped, proudly showed me a photograph of herself and her husband standing in a parking lot full of motorcycles.  I’m talking hundreds of motorcycles. 

“Wow.” I said, my meager math skills failing to calculate drawing time vs. her potential budget vs. how much I didn’t want to piss her off.  At a loss, I suggested, “Wouldn’t it be better to just draw you and your husband on one bike together?” 

Diane cocked her head and thrust her chin at me in a quick aggressive movement.  “FIRST of all,” she said loudly into my face, “they’re not BIKES.  They’re HARLEYS.  There’s a fucking DIFFERENCE.”

I may have peed a little. 

“And I DO want ALL of it in the picture,” she went on.  “It represents the biker life, you know?  We're totally in it, it’s all around us.  It’s a big fucking deal.” 

If one motorcycle is $20 or if I do three for... I give up.

“Okay, great!” I said, nodding agreeably like someone whose ass didn't need kicking.

“And I want it BIG.”  Diane said firmly.  “It’s going over my new leather couch and it’s a big wall.  How big can you draw it?” 

Yikes.  I looked at all the detail involved  - this was going to be a huge job.  We decided on 24”x36”, but I think she’d been thinking even bigger.  At the time, almost all of my drawings were 8x10" or 11x14"... I didn’t even know where to get drawing paper that big yet.  In the photo, their faces were about as big as a thumbnail and too blurry to see clearly.  In the finished drawing, their faces would be about 4 inches high. I need to see more detail to do a good job.

“You should give me some photos that are clearer and closer of your faces,” I told her.  “That way I can get a better likeness since I can’t see you that well in this one.” 

Diane stared at me a second and yelled,  “WELL WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT?  I could have brought more!” 

Mommy. 

So Diane stomped out and then stomped back within a couple days.  “I brought my modeling photos!” she hollered. 

MODELING?  Reading my surprised reaction, she explained, “All my friends say, ‘Di, you got pretty eyes.’ So I figured WHY THE FUCK NOT?!”  Diane looked to be in her mid 40’s, hard as nails with heavily mascara-ed eyes so blue, she must have been wearing neon colored contacts.  Suddenly a little shy, Diane handed me her modeling album.  Turning the pages, I found myself disappointed in whoever took them.  They were lit harshly and taken with a cheap camera.  Model or not, the photos didn’t flatter her.  Diane was growing on me and I felt strangely protective of her hopefulness.  We chose a softer photo that Diane liked.  Then she presented a big, close-up photo of her husband. 

Burt, not Mr. Harley.

“Isn’t he HOT?” Diane asked with pride.  Mr. Harley had a 70’s moustache Burt Reynolds thing going that wasn’t really my cup of beer, but I could see the attraction. 

“Sure,” I agreed.  “He’s a good looking guy.” 

“I keep trying to meet people on Match.com,” Diane confided.  “It’s hard to meet cool people to hang out with, ya know?”

Wait, what now?  Match.com?  Images of why Diane and her wild Hooper husband would want to “meet” people flashed through my head.  Were they swingers?  Was I getting my first swinger invitation?  What do you wear to a swinger party?

“But… I thought you were so into your husband?” I stammered, stalling before I made my final swinging decision.

Diane glared at me, stunned.  There was a big weird pause.  “It’s been TWO fucking YEARS!” she finally snapped, guardedly. 

Um, I don't understand what is happening.

“You do know my husband fucking DIED on his Harley, right?  Two doors down from our house?  I TOLD YOU about it at the art show!  REMEMBER?  I had to walk away from you because it was too hard?  It was only a couple months then.”

Oh my God, I am such an idiot.  I did remember.  The fog faded and I could see her bright blue eyes filling up with tears when we first met as she talked about shock and pain, trying to describe the portrait she had in her mind… a tribute to their 22 years of marriage, to their biker life, so full of joy. 

“He knew the risks of riding,” she said, quiet for the first time since I’d met her.  “It was our life and he lived it to the fullest, on the edge.  He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

The day of Diane's last visit, my friend Vicki was over.  When Diane called to tell me she was on her way, I nearly peed again, this time with glee.  “YOU’RE GOING TO MEET HER!” I yelled at Vicki, Diane style. 

Diane didn't let me down.  “GET FUCKING THIS!!!  I just saw a sewer truck!” she announced, as she strolled in familiarly, kicking off her boots.  “It feels like it’s meant to be that I’m picking this thing up today!”  The truck had something to do with how her husband had died.  “You know, the guy that was riding with my husband that night never stepped up to the plate.” Diane roughly wiped unwanted tears away, then suddenly leaned her head back and yelled, “That MOTHER FUCKER!!!!  HA HA HA!!!”  She laughed lustily and loud and with complete abandon.  Vicki and I were frozen to our seats, jaws gaping.  Diane could change moods so quickly and intensely, it spun your head around.   

“You know, I tell it like it is!” Diane cried, “I’m not afraid to put it out there!”

After instructing me to adjust her hair (more feathered), Diane wanted me to fix her husband’s biker hat, which I had drawn like Chef Boyardee.  “It’s flatter,” she said, disgustedly. “You know, like a biker’s hat.”

“I don’t know what a biker’s hat looks like,” I admitted with shame, exposing the poorly hidden secret that I am an uncool dork.  I prayed that Vicki wouldn’t laugh and get us both killed.

After I made the changes, Diane was happy, smiling a big tearful smile.  “I’m having a baby shower for my daughter and I wanted to have this ready in time.” 

Off she went, cussing happily with her portrait rolled into a kitchen garbage bag. 

“Don’t you have anything better to give to your clients?” scolded Vicki.  I do now.  Good friends like Vicki and Diane always tell you like it is. Once Vicki finished making fun of my half ass professionalism, she echoed my exact thoughts.  "Diane was wild, wasn’t she?  Don’t you love to meet people like her?  She was so different than us.  I loved her.  She told me that she’s from Crestwood, which explains a lot.”

“It does?” 

“That’s south side.”

“Oh,” I said knowingly, not knowing.  I really don’t know anything about anything.  And besides, when did Vicki have Crestwood discussions without me?  Maybe when I was pulling out my fancy garbage/sales bag. 

I loved Diane, too and I was so glad that I got the chance to share her high decibel, wonderful self with Vicki.  I can’t get over the amazing range of people who actually pay me to draw something precious to them.  I fall a little bit in love with so many of them.

I hope Diane has found a new hot biker guy who appreciates her strength and respects how much she loved her husband.  I also hope that Diane isn’t pissed at me for writing about her. 

Seriously.  She could hurt me.  But you kind of love her too, don't you?


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Holding my Ham Hostage

Often when people are first getting used to the idea of me drawing random stuff, they are confused about the process and they'll make some incorrect assumptions, such as:

"Do we bring Grandpa and the cats to your house so you can draw them?"
"Is 5 am an okay time to call you?" 
"Are you going to sit in our front yard and draw our house?  Or... what?" 



I draw from photographs.  I drew from life in college during the one drawing class that I took as a part of my useless advertising degree.  Naked people came into the room and we had to draw them.  There was a lot of excess girth and hair. So live drawing is out for me. 


Just in case you were planning for me to come over to your house to draw you, let's establish that I like to think of myself as the pencil portrait store... you're supposed to come to me.  If you want to buy some deli ham, you don't tell the deli lady to come to your house.  Speaking of deli ladies, the last time I bought ham at Jewel (the Signature ham off the bone is cheap and delicious and my damn kids eat it like potato chips), one of the Jewel deli ladies was smiling beatifically, like the 40 Year Old Virgin poster of Steve Carrell. 


Intrigued by her joy at slicing my ham, I said to the deli lady, "Wow, you sure look happy!!!"

The deli lady looked half busted and half triumphant.  She glanced nervously at her coworkers who were enthusiastically NOT making eye contact with her.  "I'm just going to say it!" she blurted... "It's Jesus!!!" 

Deli lady went on to talk extensively about Jesus and her relationship with God while her coworkers continued to look as pointedly away from her as possible. She was holding my ham hostage.  While having a chat about Jesus with the deli lady wasn't what I had planned for the day, it made for a memorable Jewel trip. I was intrigued by the nervous behavior and her defiant preface, "I'm just going to say it..."  Clearly maybe she'd said "it" quite a bit and maybe it had been suggested by her boss and/or coworkers to save the Jesus talk for another time. 

Like most trips to the deli, drawing portraits doesn't usually involve Jesus discussions.  But sometimes it does.  Lots of people I meet take the time to tell me how blessed I am, how God has given me a precious gift.  Most are very kind.  Some stare me aggressively in the eye while they tell me I'm blessed, measuring the churchiness of my reaction.  I agree that I am blessed in many, many ways. And yet, my particular upbringing and religious experiences haven't made me super comfortable with sudden, unexpected chats about the Lord.  You might feel yourself becoming eager to discuss God with me right now.  That would make me feel like you're holding my ham hostage.  Everyone is different and I'm not big into God chats.

I had my longest, most involved religious discussion with a very special client, who also demanded a pencil portrait store house call. 

I met Gilbert Stoddard at my very first craft show in 2005 with one of her many daughters. Not only did she automatically assume that I was going to her house for our portrait transaction, she tried her hardest to save my poor, confused soul. 

For a woman well into her 80’s, Gilly is a true lady - accessorized, curled and sparkling every time you see  her.   She stays extremely busy with her big family, church and friends, which was why I think we didn't get together until nearly a year after we met.  For some reason, I kept following up with her.  I'm not always all that conscientious in following up with my prospective clients.  Perhaps I sensed that she’d be important to me. 

Gilly is good through and through. She welcomed me into her house with open arms, eagerly showing me photographs of her four daughters and ten grandchildren.  The same daughter still attends my shows and I heard there are three great-grandchildren now as well, and counting.  On a wall behind Gilly's dining room table, there were ten columns of 5x7 photographs of each grandchild from babyhood through high school or college graduations.  Beautiful photos of weddings and family gatherings were everywhere. 

The occasion for one of my pencil portraits was their 59^th wedding anniversary. Gilly wanted to celebrate her husband's Naval career with images of him throughout his service.  Since it was for their anniversary and they so clearly had a beautiful life together, I suggested that we include both of them in the portrait.  She liked that idea and guided me into her bedroom where she pulled a big photo board out from under her bed.  It was covered with pictures that one of her daughters had put together for their 50^th anniversary. 

The photos were gorgeous.  I thought Gilly and her husband looked like movie stars when they met in the 1940’s.  He was a young sailor and she was a dancer.  Gilly said that all her friends thought that Mr. Stoddard was a looker.  After she saw him for the very first time, she turned to her friends and said, "That's the man I'm going to marry."  They've been married over 65 years now.  She told me about how wonderful her marriage had been and all the special times her family had together.  She hit the jackpot.

“Families that pray together and play together, stay together,” Gilly announced.

I told her that I was so happy for her, that she was really lucky.  I was having a terrible time coping with some relationship problems with family.

“Do you have a relationship with God?” Gilly asked. 

Uh oh. 

If you haven't smelled the swiss cheese by now, I am Switzerland when it comes to religion.  Plus I love swiss cheese and Triscuits with my wine if I'm out of Cheez-its.  I respect faith in general.  I envy those who have their spiritual life figured out.  Amen to you.  Meanwhile, I am very busy over-analyzing, questioning, doubting and obsessing over whether anyone is mad at me.  I have yet to have that transcending religious experience that compels me to quote some scripture at the DMV.  But for those who do, I get that it is no joke.

Back to sweet, lovely Gilly.  She is a true believer, and spent her youth as a traveling evangelist.  She feels she was blessed with the name Gilbert because she was invited to speak by churches who assumed she was a man at a time when only men were welcome to speak at the pulpit.  She told me stories about how she helped non believers become evangelists themselves.  She’s the real deal and packs a serious religious love punch. 

Gilly made an impact on my business and in my life in such unexpected ways. The portrait of Gilly and her husband over sixty years of marriage has touched more people than any of my other portraits combined.  I've drawn dozens of "then and now" anniversary portraits, thanks to her.  People at my shows sigh with appreciation when they see the caption, "Sixty Years Together".  We all wish for that, for our parents, for ourselves. All that precious time in one image.

During a portrait meeting (there were quite a few), Gilly remarked, smiling, “Our God is a wonderful God, don’t you think?” All the light in the world shined bright in her eyes, but she also had that deli look… the questioning look.  I felt a tug of uncertainty.  Was I missing something that these kinds of questions always make me so uncomfortable, even with a dear lady like Gilly?  She stood up, walked behind the couch where I was sitting and put her hands on my shoulders.  She said, “Jesus, please help this dear girl cope with her worries.  Help her sleep at night and take her fears away.  Help her know your love.” Call it my achilles heel for true kindness, call it a true religious experience... I wept like a baby under her gentle hands. It moves me still to think about it.  You know I'm a crybaby, but this was different.

Despite her efforts (she gave me a bible for dummies and then quizzed me about it), I can’t help but feel that Gilly's is just one interpretation of something huge and unknown to us, at least to me.  It is something different to people all over the world.  Each belief is as precious and true to the believer as the next.  Whether you go to a place of worship regularly or make the world a better place in your own way, you are alright with me as long as you aren't a meanie.  Gilly understands and prays for me. 

I was blessed to have had Gilly Stoddard hold my ham hostage.


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Boo-Hoo Water Balloons

It can be humiliating to sit at an art show; especially a craft show.  People power-walk by, eyes darting around in search of jewelry or clothes for their cement porch goose.   It's kind of like when you have a garage sale and you feel protective of your junk when someone does the slow drive by without even stopping.  What?  Is my junk not good enough for you?  I get it... you don't want to make eye contact, because it feels like a buying sign.

The art show people who walk by and ignore me don't know that I spent between $150 and $600 to be sitting there.  I know they don't know it took hours to pack up my 500 lbs of gear, haul it all out of my Durango, cart it to my spot, spend hours setting it up.  People have no idea that each of my portraits has a sweet story... that a part of me is hanging by paper clips on my mesh display walls.   

I know they don’t know, but it still hurts my big fat feelings when they ignore me. I am such a baby.  I mean, really.  My husband told me over martinis and cribbage the other night that I really need to be more positive.  Translation: why are you such a crybaby?  I could fill up water balloons with my self pity blubbering. I sit home all day drawing pictures and writing blogs about myself, what do I have to sulk about?  Sadly for my husband, plenty.

I do intend to be more positive.  But not before I complain a little more.

Last weekend, I had a huge show at the Odeum in Villa Park.  It’s a great show, even though it is held in a creepy, dark, old, tin shed of a building with godawful cell phone reception.  My booth was across from a big ole blingy display of cheap jewelry that took up TWO spots.  Women are nearly drunk with joy when they find cheap jewelry at art shows.  They’ll try it on with their friends and yell stuff while laughing too loud, which feels like a deliberate attempt to hurt my feelings.  They are practically jumping up and down.  I spent the entire weekend looking at the backs of these women. 

Okay, I sort of lied, because it doesn't matter whether the jewelry is cheap.  It usually isn't, but it's JEWELRY and chicks dig jewelry and most of the people at craft shows and art shows are skirts on the prowl for more jewelry.  JEWELRY!

By the time they were done trying on every single item on display and convincing each other to buy those earrings or that bracelet, the women at the cheap jewelry display across from me would immediately sober up and skulk out of dodge with their guilty jewelry purchases.  They’d spent too much time in that spot, no time left to check out the pencil chick.  To make matters worse, a nosy jewelry vendor wandered into my booth and helpfully gave me an earful about how my display wasn’t good enough and looked like it only belonged outside, but not at good shows, where he’d get in but I wouldn’t.  What a dick.  Wasn’t I just telling you how I worry about my display, and feel like I am trying out for cheerleading when I apply to fancy shows?

Sometimes the jewelry drunks give me the briefest once over, which makes me wince even more inside.  A glance with a quick look away is way worse than being ignored, which I'm sort of used to.  Some art show patrons will give my booth a good sniff as they're wandering slowly but steadily by.  That’s a little better, but I still sulk because they don’t stop.  When I say sulk, I mean I have cried in my car on the way home.  I obsessively wonder what I'm doing wrong.   If my husband calls at the wrong time, as soon as I've heard his rumbly, kind voice, I've started to cry in my booth, too.  In front of people.  Yikes.  I really do need to be more positive; this blog may force me into therapy. But hell, at this point I've been pointedly ignored by several million people. Even a mentally balanced normal person with non-crybaby tendencies could get discouraged. 

If I'm not getting blown off, I am being chatted up by people just killing time, waiting for their jewelry-shopping friends.  They'll chit-chat about my pictures, ask questions, maybe even fill out an inquiry form, but it's all hot air and they're not fooling me with their fake interest. Others like to talk about their cats in great detail, or their artistic grandparents or neighors who like to draw. I am trapped and at their mercy. Most don't call me, even if they swear on their cat that they will.

Thank goodness, every once in awhile, I meet someone who gets me immediately.  It’s as if a cartoon lightbulb appears over a smiling face, and it’s such a relief. 

Sandy Smith got me the moment I met her.  As soon as she saw my display at one of my very first shows, she struck a dramatic pose and said, “WOW!” She was one of the very first people I met who made me feel like I could have an art career. 

I have a book of sample portraits and photos on my table that almost everybody ignores.  Sandy carefully looked through the ENTIRE book, pointing out her favorites and pausing occasionally to look at me, shaking her head.  “I LOVE it!” she gushed, “This is fabulous.  Who wouldn’t love to have a beautiful portrait of their children?”  I remember one time my friend Nancy stopped at my booth during a local outdoor summer festival and yelled, "These portraits are so BEAUTIFUL, I'm having CHEST PAINS!"  That was almost as good, even though Nancy already knew me and was just being hilarious.  Mothers tend to be the ones who get it, who share my passion for sweet little moments caught on film. If there was a fire, I would grab the old photo albums of non-digital pictures. The photo booth pictures when my husband and I fell in love… that photo of Joey at two years old in a plaid wool hat with flaps. What if they were just gone?

Sandy Smith knew what I was talking about. 

“I have the PERFECT photo!” she told me, “it is my favorite picture of my girls. Just wait till you see it! You’re going to love drawing it.”  She was so appreciative and delighted, I loved her instantly and more than a normal person should love a stranger.

TANGENT:

Here’s an embarrassing example of my affectionate nature causing problems. When I’ve drawn someone, I have spent hours staring at my subjects, often thinking about what I know of them or wondering about what I don’t know about them. I develop a bit of a bond during all those hours of drawing. One time, I spotted one of my subjects walking by at a show, and I cheerfully called out to her, “Heyyyy, I know YOO-UUU!!!” in a singsong greeting. Startled, the woman stopped, and I gave her a big ole hug. It turned out that her portrait had been a gift from her husband’s cousin. She had never met me, didn’t know me and clearly was not a member of the hug and kiss club, of which I am president. This was awkward, and not the first time it had happened, but I have a learning disability when it comes to this kind of thing and many other kinds of things.

Months later, I emailed a request to my list of clients and friends, asking if they would consider forwarding my website to their friends. I do this occasionally when I am feeling desperate for work and I usually get a job or two out of it. Sometimes my dear friends or clients actually copy me in on their emails, touting my portraits as a swell gift, which really touches me.  I get such a kick out of kindness. One dear soul also forwarded me a response to the email she’d sent on my behalf. It went something like this:

“Hey Wendy, I sent out your message and my coworker wrote this back to me:

I know this portrait weirdo.

She attacked me out of nowhere at a craft show.

She’s a nut case and I suggest you steer clear.”

Can you believe that crabby broad popped up again? What are the chances? Sometimes the world gives you a sign that you should calm down or change. I choose to ignore these signs and keep doing the same dysfunctional stuff. 

END OF TANGENT.

Sandy Smith, on the other hand, was HAPPY to be hugged, which was good, because she was so sweet and complimentary about my work, I could not have held myself back from hugging her. The portrait of her three girls turned out to be one of my all time favorites...

“I call the photo of my girls ‘see no evil, hear no evil,’” she told me.  ”You’ll see why.”  She sent it to me in the mail and it cracked me up.

Eat no evil, poop no evil, whistle no evil.

While they aren’t covering their eyes or ears, the girls’ distinct, silly expressions have that monkey feel, like they are giving us different subliminal messages.  Let's think of some thought bubbles for them.    

Plus, they have water balloons shoved down their bathing suits.  Sandy insisted this was a very important part of the photograph and needed to be included in the drawing. I’m intrigued by this… were the balloons supposed to be boobs?  Why so many?  Were they just trying to see how many they could cram in there? Like clowns in a little clown car?  It’s an enigmatic picture when you consider the possibilities.

"Water Balloons" has been one of a few rare portraits that I've kept in my display for a very long time.  It has sparked many conversations with art show patrons.  Sometimes they make a general happy comment, sometimes they want to know what's going on with the lumps in their bathing suits.  The girl in the middle looks a bit like an Olsen twin, especially in my drawing, which lots of people have believed they are the first to point out.  Not only was the portrait a hoot to draw, it has been an unexpected ice breaker and a beloved part of my portfolio. 

I've drawn thousands of perfectly smiling kids.  Most people are not willing to invest hundreds of dollars in goofy expressions.  But sometimes the silly faces are the ones you love to remember.  I am tempted to add some grade school photos of my friends here, but will exercise a little restraint for once.  (I'm thinking of the Aunt Jemima photo, Vicki.)  Hooray for happy, goofy portraits! 

I want to be adopted into this family

It gives me a joyful little jolt every time I see Sandy's water balloon portrait.  I’m so grateful to her and for all my clients for not ignoring me and for getting me.  When she received her finished portrait, Sandy hand wrote me a beautiful letter, pouring her heart out about what the portrait meant to her.  When is the last time you received a hand written letter in the mail, with a stamp rather than an email?  They are rare and delicious.  All the kind things that my clients say help to stave off my natural tendency to mope and be neurotic. 

Sandy has visited me at the same show where we first met under my big pencil.  Her happy, growing girls crowd into my booth and they are so tickled to see their portrait on display or in my sample book.  Sandy and her girls stand close together, peeking over each other’s shoulders to find their page and to look at the new stuff.  As they stand together, Sandy’s hand gently brushes a stray lock of hair back from one daughter’s face while her other hand absent-mindedly rubs the back of another.  Sandy is a lovey-dovey, uber-mother like me.  She's in the hug and kiss club. 

Each time Sandy and her girls suddenly appear, unannounced among a sea of averted strangers’ faces, I feel the absolute opposite of ignored... and it's all worth it again.

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