A PAINT-BY-NUMBERS LIFE

Tags

Eiffel Tower, Kerry James Marshall, Paint By Numbers, Seurat, Starry Night, Van Gogh

Ugh.

(not the most clever way to start a blog post or anything really, but UGH!)

This post is being written for the sole purpose of making me feel better about myself. Me me me me me. My lack of productivity is as a gloom upon ME. A GLOOM, I say.

It’s already June something or other, meaning that next up is Thanksgiving and then we’re pretty much drinking champagne into the morning of January 1st, twenty-fricking-eighteen.

Really, the fact that change is not happening is what’s bugging me. I’m anxious and restless without a direction, stuck in the pose of a sprinter on her marks, while the dude who’s supposed to pop the starter gun is busy playing candy crush on his phone. Forever.

I’m good at making things happen, but in this case I don’t really know what that “thing” is. So I guess I just Christopher Columbus it and strike out without a clear course and hopefully not nosedive off the edge of the earth. Wheee…

Why typing a few lousy words on a dumb blog would make me feel better, is a mystery, but it’s been proven to work before. Also, it is the beginnings of charting a course or a place to maybe stumble upon a direction whilst hen-pecking my fingers at letters on the keyboard.

Starry Night, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

In other news, I have a new thing that I love. PAINT BY NUMBERS. Whaaaat?  Yeah, there’s a whole coloring books for adults movement and I tried it, but it was too tedious to finish a whole picture and not enough room for self-expression. Don’t try to make me stay in the lines, man.

My first paint by number was done as a gag gift for a friend back in January, and I actually ended up loving it. There is room for self expression in the crappy water based paint applied to an even crappier surface. You have to mix some colors yourself, so there is actual SKILL needed. Hahaha. I’ve been working my way through the Masterpiece series. I started with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers (I didn’t get a finished photo of it).

Sticking with the Van Gogh theme, the next one I chose was Starry Night. Challenging! But lots of room for expression in that crazy sky. That was my favorite part to paint. The colors really suck; they dry fast, don’t blend and are so FLAT. I want to spray varnish the whole thing or at least strategically swipe at it with clear nail polish.

My finished bastardization of Starry Night

 

Starry Night technically turned out well, I guess??? But the colors are so off from the original, it’s like a different painting altogether.

 

La Tour Eiffel, Georges Suerat, 1890

There’s a magnet on my fridge that I got at a museum gift shop a million years ago of Seurat’s Eiffel Tower. Sure enough, it’s been hacked into a paint by numbers set, so I decided to try it.

Each of these paintings took me about two hours total, while it took Seurat two YEARS to paint his version, slacker that he was. Now, this pointillism thing is new to me, technically speaking. I’ve painted before (waaaaay back in my young adulthood), but not using tiny strokes or dots to create shapes and shadows. And I have to say, I really liked it!

As I moved across the “canvas”, I began to understand the juxtaposition of colors and how they complemented each other (or not) and how to manipulate the outcome. And that was kind of… ASTOUNDING. The whole experience was dare I say it, FUN and had me thinking that I should figure out how to start painting, maybe take a class, maybe just buy more paint by numbers and then exhibit my “work” in 2018 (I’m joking, artist friends). Although, I think a paint by number exhibition would be AWESOME, especially in conjunction with a black velvet painting exhibition. Ha!

I’m afraid that if I try to actually start PAINTING, I’ll get frustrated and come to hate it, and right now it is a happy place to go.

I’m sorry, Georges.

Even though I am being guided by the numbers, they are guiding me in a relaxing and non-conformist way. There’s room to express, there’s a way to use my brain (but not too much), there’s space to let my art flag fly. There’s a feeling of accomplishment at the end and maybe my mom will hang one on her refrigerator the way she did my paintings from kindergarten.

Maybe, I will stumble upon a paint by number canvas of my own life that will guide me bit by bit to eventually form a masterpiece of a Life.

 

In other (real) art news:

Modern day master, Kerry James Marshall

One of the most life-altering exhibitions I’ve seen since the Ed Kienholz solo exhibition at LA MoMA in the 90s. Read about it here:

THE THINGS THAT MATTER

Tags

Amos Kennedy, gallery, Happiness, The Meaning of Art

 

In July of 2013, the gallery I work in will be showcasing this printer’s voice in our (can’t find the right adjective) town. I don’t remember a time I’ve been more excited about curating an exhibition; excited personally, visually, and emotionally. It’s no coincidence that it takes place during the fifty year anniversary of the civil rights movement in Alabama and the South and This United States. The fact that our gallery gets to host this statement of truthful creativity, that has deep undertones of joy for all humanity, is a gift I didn’t see coming in my career.

Here’s to Amos Kennedy. And if you’ve never heard of him, you should. The man is a force of passionate positivity, the embodiment of fearlessness of the spirit. A man to look at and think, “I aspire to be as much a man as he is”. At least I do.

Cheers to you, Amos. And to the rest of you? Proceed and Be Bold.

Below is one of Amos’ prints that hang in my house. Also, I have the documentary DVD, so If you’d like to borrow it, just let me know.

Find all of his available prints here: http://www.kennedyprints.com/

ANOTHER GIRL ON FIRE

Tags

Art Dealers, Social Life, The Hunger Games

The image in my brain was me running, blonde hair blazing behind me, silently screaming, out of the room, through the standing army of caterers, knocking their trays left and right, across the patent-shiny wooden floor of, I’m sure, the most-est eco-est wood, out the two-building high glass front doors, looking back to take aim with my bow at any socialites trying to forbid my exit (of course, there were none) shoving past the valet parking guy after he tossed me my keys, sprinting down the mile long driveway leaving a Roadrunner trail of dust hanging in my wake.

That was the image that flashed through my mind as I stood wide-eyed with a fixed smile nodding and listening to some bullshit analysis of art, art history, art commerce, the art “world”, balancing on too high heels that sported a good label, purchased so that maybe I would blend in with these fine folks and their footwear.

When trapped included in a group of men at these events, why did we always have to analyze everything in every conversation? Why did we have to spout off words and names we remembered from college that made us sound intelligent, but were really only examples of superior memory-zoned brains? Why couldn’t we just talk? About, maybe, how tired we all were of faking it at so many different events on so many different levels and talking talking TALKING in an attempt to hide our social, intellectual, and economic inadequacies? That was the men.

As for the women? Thirty more minutes (before I could politely escape) in my mind of wondering how Madame X got her teeth so white, and how Mistress Y got her body so thin and hair so blonde. In fact they were all that way – thin, blonde, tan with fake-white smiles, their simple clothing made in fabrics that must cost at least $100 a yard, their jewelry of rustic leather bands braided around Semi and Super Precious stones. I think the look is called “Casual Elegance” and they ALL had it. The bracelet on Lady R’s wrist alone would not only buy the new tires I desperately needed for my 8-year-old car,  but could purchase six new cars with gas money to spare.

I was trapped in a conversation about how after pilates on Sunday wouldn’t it be fun if  they all went and had Mimosas? OMG!!! There were squeals of joy and agreement as I wondered what tribe these people were from and secretly glad, in my own admittedly snobbish way, that I wasn’t part of it. The sad part was that I absolutely LOVE pilates as a way to relax every part of me. If I could afford to do it every day, I would.

Hypocrite (and art dealer whore, as my colleague refers to us*)  that I am, that evening I had joined in the over intellectualized art analysis talk and smiled with wonder and unabashed joy at the idea of post-pilates Mimosas, even though I was not invited.

* For the record he’s way more of a (self-professed!) art whore than I am.

And then my social switch flipped. Maybe it was a headache coming on from the blinding teeth, maybe it was my good shoes digging into my toes, maybe it was my common sense waking me up, but my GOD I wanted to run my non-pilate’d ass right out of that scene, looking left and right for someone to just try to stop me, and into the waiting arms of my own tribe.

My tribe. People who write thank you cards on paper and send late-night texts of XO’s just because. People who hike mountains and swim in the ocean, people who can sit and talk about clouds or nothing at all, comfortable with silence, people who create works of art in paint, ink, and unique (sometimes singing) voices, words, and thoughts. My tribe. Some of whom would have a martini BEFORE pilates and call it a regular fitness day. People who could give a shit about my economic status or my shoes, but care deeply for my general well being as I care for theirs.

So, that particular evening I did not escape down the well-tended driveway blazing a fiery trail, but reached in my mind toward the people I know who are real and caring and smiled at how they would applaud if I ever actually DID flee such an event, to stand in the driveway, elbow cocked back in true aim, and shoot my flaming arrow in the sky as a sign to them that I was (am) still alive in the arena.

It could still happen as there is an increasingly fine line between manners and absolute truth that keeps the whole scenario at bay.

Until then, May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor.

Peace Out.

Miss MoL

ART, TRAINS, FRIENDS, AND LOS ANGELES – PART 1

Tags

art, Art Dealers, LACMA, Los Angeles

The one thing I have not written about much at all on this blog is art. More than eight hours of my every day is spent with art – choosing, hanging, selling, loving ART. It finds its way into my dreams.

My work days are spent in proximity to artists ranging from canonical status  to the new, clear and bright energy of those in the process of pushing their way into a wider visibility. It is a dream of a job. The job was a dream that I made reality.

Anyway. This weekend was art weekend in Los Angeles. Many shows, many artists, many venues. As part of my job, I need to be out and about seeing what is new, what energy is in the gallery business, who is doing what, connecting with other dealers, artists and clients. Shaking hands, talking and talking, smiling, nodding, sharing, listening, praising, villifying, avoiding, and (if I’m lucky enough to come in contact with someone worthy) flirting. All as per usual in the daily life of a gallerina/curator.

Rather than drive to Los Angeles (a drive that always leaves me with my shoulders hunched up around my ears from traffic tension after spouting the most horrific swear words your mother should never hear) I took the train. And it was fabulous. Two and a half hours of stressless bliss later I arrived relaxed at Union Station. Before I knew it I was walking slowly through the art deco hall of the lobby admiring the beamed and painted ceiling, the round discs of chandeliers, the streamlined leather chairs for weary travelers to sink into; public art in a very fine, California style. I waited  for my super friend to pick me up, the lighted station sign behind me and rows of dusty iconic Cali palms in front of me, my shoulders nowhere near my ears and no need to wash my mouth out with soap.

Union Station.

As seems to be a common occurence these days, I took a moment to notice my good fortune: to be standing outside a beautiful building, dressed warmly for the cold evening, stress-free and waiting on a friend, with the whole weekend ahead.

Flash forward to Saturday morning. It’s not every day that I get picked up by one of the most handsome and gentile men ever, who happens to have the same interest in art as me and is one of my oldest friends. More good fortune. Every woman should experience being picked up by a lovely man in a black jaguar after months of post failed-relationship-rehabilitation solo ventures. It does much for boosting one’s faith in pretty much everything.

We headed to LACMA. The standouts there, for me, being two works by Chris Burden: the now iconic lamp posts and the more recent Metropolis II.

LACMA Lamposts.

The lamp posts I love because they are old, refurbished reminders of childhood holidays in Pasadena, echoes of Oak Street. For a contemporary curator my heart is, ironically and iconically, stuck in the past.

Twelve hundred custom Matchbox cars move ceaselessly through Burden’s urban creation. Metropolis II is a racing study of the the rapidity of life and all that we miss by moving so quickly through our lives, the shapes of beautiful buildings lost in the blur as we rush to the next destination guided by lines, not unlike cattle through a chute on their way to… where?

Metropolis II by Chris Burden

The result is a hypnotic study of motion that, once sucked in, is difficult to peel away from.

After the speedy metro world, we traversed the galleries to see the California Lifestyle exhibition (my personal favorites were the matching his and hers lobster printed swim costumes, but no photos because I got yelled at by a guard for taking photos of other exhibitions) and colonial art of the native Americans of  Mexico and South America.

I have an interest in the casta paintings of colonial Mexico, but they only had one example. Casta paintings resulted in a need to classify the mixed race unions that were an obvious result of colonialism. Such a painting would often depict a white man, a native Mexican woman and their new breed offspring.

A good example of a Casta painting. From Wikipedia.

These paintings, to me, are wonderful documents of families, of history in the making, but also the beginning of defining separation of classes and race. Okay, maybe not the beginning, but an EARLY artistic reference to race and class definition.

Once through all of that, we slid into hipster chairs in the LACMA located restaurant, Ray’s.

Tableside at Ray's.

My favorite part was the little drawer in the table that held the utensils. Brilliant design. The food was phenomenal (sashimi, salad, and an extra spicy Bloody Mary for me). Brought to the table was a chopping block of crusty bread and a small plate with a slab of butter covered in salt crystals and small green bits of chives. Pretty and delcious. Apropos of an art museum.

After lunch we cruised through semi-empty streets downtown to the Convention Center and the LA Art Show, while listening to Etta James to honor her passing.

To be continued in Part II (otherwise this post would be hideously long and also I’m tired and need to go to bed)

THE GIRL WITH THE SWAN TATTOO

Tags

art, Art Dealers, Curation, Fear of heights, Lisbeth Salander, Stieg Larsson, Writing

Just Read It.

**** I’m re-posting this in preparation for going to see the American movie version tomorrow. I thoroughly enjoyed the Swedish version and am not really sure why it is being re-made in English, but  I’m the sucker they are looking for and will go see it.  Go Lisbeth.

 

Have you read the book THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO? I tried starting it about five times to no avail.

Then one foggy morning I was wandering from the bedroom to the kitchen and back to the bedroom, schlepping coffee and newspapers and assorted weekend paraphernalia back to bed. The news was (is) depressing and I should have known better than to try and read it. My new New Yorker had not yet arrived and there I was face to face with LISBETH SALANDER for the sixth time, the last salvation of literature on my bedside table.

OKAY, SISTER, I thought. I’LL TAKE YOU ON. I’ll show you that you can’t suck me into your bestselling tattooed shit. You’re all tough and Run Lola Run and no one can touch you because you ride a motorcycle. I get it. I’ve seen it and read it before. You can’t move me. JASON BOURNE was way before you.

I climbed back into bed with my strong and hot (like my man) coffee  and tried to read THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO again. Whatever.

And then, son of a… I got  hooked. Lisbeth. What the F? You are AWESOME in the true sense of this much overused word. You kick ass in the way I  only dream of, especially with a golf club. That’s justice, baby. I read for about 5 hours to finish your story yesterday.

With the ass-kicking spirit of Ms. Salander in my head, I went to work today, without the golf club. My assignment as a KICK ASS ART DEALER (sans tattoos) was to ascend to our ATTIC storage space and curate an exhibition from what I found up there for a specific artist whom I VERY MUCH ADMIRE. She was the impetus to overcome any of my fears as she had overcome her own in a way that Lisbeth would admire, and then some.

Sure, Boss. I’m on it!

I said all this knowing that I am terrified of heights and had only been in the attic once and that was really only halfway up the ladder. So really I HAD NEVER BEEN ALL THE WAY UP INTO THE ATTIC. This ladder is like a fire escape ladder. It’s high. HIGH! I have a fear of heights in the sense that high points create a sort of vertigo and disorientation that is as if the earth has tilted and we are all sliding uncontrollably into the abyss…

But guess who doesn’t have a fear of heights? Yeah, Lisbeth Salander. She wouldn’t be crying in her Swedish soup about having to climb a ladder and look at some art. She would have been up that ladder with one hand taped behind her back holding a taser just in case some jerk accosted her leather clad leg on the way up.

So, heck yeah! I was going up into the attic (sans taser, but I do have MACE in my desk drawer, so that’s kind of international intrigue spy-ish). I put on my running clothes, because it is dusty up there and I would have to crawl on my knees. My Nikes took me straight up the iron ladder and into the heart of our business. Row after row after row of beautiful paintings. Really, cubicles of visual jewels that would put many museums to shame.

I got the job done. I curated an entire show in my track suit, on my knees, twenty feet above our commercial business, because there was no time to be a wuss. It was time to kick some curator ass in a hot and sweaty, close space.

In the process I came across a box of paintings that hadn’t been looked at in a long time. Sorting through them, I found my next art purchase. A quick sketch by COLIN CAMPBELL COOPER of some swans, circa 1900. We have a hundred sketches by this artist, but it was the artist’s impulsive swan sketch that caught my eye. Not the cathedrals, not the more famous Orientalist paintings, not the European street sketches, not the work that warrants thousands of Kroner on the international art market. It was a simple sketch of swans on a blank page that got me. Go figure.

Thanks to STIEG LARSSON and Lisbeth Salander, I was inspired to kick some ass in our attic by curating an exhibition and procuring my next  art purchase. It’s not a Dragon and it will never be a tattoo. I don’t know yet what Lisbeth’s Dragon means to her, but the Swans, to me, speak of childhood and peace and the magic of memories that come to mind in the space between waking and sleep (which decidedly does NOT sound very kick ass).

Thanks Stieg. And thanks, FRANK, for access to some of the finest art archives in the world. You create the space for us to kick some ART DEALING ASS, with or without tattoos.

Miss MoL

ANOTHER MELBA POST- WITH PHOTOS!

Tags

Houses, Most Inconsistent Blogger Award, Photo post

House with dog.

 

Since the creativity that inspires my blog posts is on vacation, I decided to post some photos once in a while just to keep things interesting. It seems I am a photo junkie these days. Maybe it’s because of the light lately (we are finally experiencing some sort of a summer here during January much to the dismay of the rest of the snowy country) or maybe because I feel like documenting things visually rather than in writing.

House with dreamy view...

 

I have found the HIPSTAMATIC and PHOTO+ apps to be adversaries in this photo addiction phase of my life. These photos don’t use either app, though. They are un-retouched iphone photos taken with a shaky, over-caffeinated hand. By the way, I now have a whole FOUR apps purchased on my iphone as compared to some of my friends who have PAGES of apps. I’m not much of an app girl. And now that I’ve written the word “app” five times it looks completely wrong and kind of dumb…

Anyway, the photos above are the living area at the site of an art installation I did the other day. The glass, south facing walls roll up entirely to let in the sunlight, a warm breeze, and the occasional monarch butterfly. It was so beautiful there, it didn’t seem real, more like a postcard or fantasy. On a side note, the house is completely fire resistant; considering the last two years of fires we have had in this area, that’s a major bonus.

That house was another reminder of why I love my job. Just to be in that space for a few hours was rejuvenating and inspiring. And as someone who is currently house hunting, it made me drool with desire.

Ciao,

Miss MoL

BRINGING HOME THE BACON AMIDST INSANITY AND A TAPEWORM RECURRENCE

Tags

Insanity, Tapeworm

One of the 60 lovely, little darlings.

DEAR EVERYONE,

This week has all the makings of being completely insane.

It will be the busiest work week I have had in, well, EVER. It’s all good stuff, but there will be no days off and long hours combined with much physical exertion.

There will be the installation of 60 paintings in our gallery with very tight time constraints. There will be the forced game-face schmoozing to sell said paintings; forced because I will be exhausted from installing the 60 lovely, little darlings.

There will be coordination of packing, transporting, hanging and (hopefully) selling 100 other paintings. There will be driving in Los Angeles traffic, which has a tendency to make my shoulders hover up around my ears from stress and SWEAR. A LOT. AND LOUDLY. There will be more forced game-face, exhausted schmoozing.

And to top it all off, the TAPE WORM has re-appeared, taking over my body with incessant cravings for pizza and bacon, never to be satisfied.

But I love my job. And I am fortunate to have a job in this crazy time. Especially, a job that sells art when art is pretty much the last thing on lists of necessary items for daily survival (although, it is high on my list as fine art is a form of food for me).

All this to say, my blog will be stalled for a while due to the aforementioned insanity. In the meantime there are a million wonderful blogs out there. Here are a few to discover if you haven’t already.

PB WRITES – She’s a writer mama and wordsmith extraordinaire. She can describe the simplest thing in the most beautiful, creative way.

THOUGHTS APPEAR – She’s funny! She has an admirable sweet tooth and isn’t afraid to share it (and use it).

MICHELLE ZIVE – Another writer mama who writes from the heart. Poignant and honest.

DAILY PLATE OF CRAZY – This writer is smart and well organized. Even her replies to comments are smart and well organized. I can only aspire…

SCREENWRITING FROM IOWA – It’s Screenwriting! It’s Iowa! What’s not to like?

I’ll be back, hopefully in full creative and inspirational mode, after October 10th.

Onward,

Miss MoL

THE GIRL WITH THE SWAN TATTOO

Tags

art, Art Dealers, Curation, Fear of heights, Lisbeth Salander, Stieg Larsson, Writing

Just Read It.

Have you read the book THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO? I tried starting it about five times to no avail.

Then one foggy morning I was wandering from the bedroom to the kitchen and back to the bedroom, schlepping coffee and newspapers and assorted weekend paraphernalia back to bed. The news was (is) depressing and I should have known better than to try and read it. My new New Yorker had not yet arrived and there I was face to face with LISBETH SALANDER for the sixth time, the last salvation of literature on my bedside table.

OKAY, SISTER, I thought. I’LL TAKE YOU ON. I’ll show you that you can’t suck me into your bestselling tattooed shit. You’re all tough and Run Lola Run and no one can touch you because you ride a motorcycle. I get it. I’ve seen it and read it before. You can’t move me. JASON BOURNE was way before you.

I climbed back into bed with my strong and hot (like my man) coffee  and tried to read THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO again. Whatever.

And then, son of a… I got  hooked. Lisbeth. What the F? You are AWESOME in the true sense of this much overused word. You kick ass in the way I  only dream of, especially with a golf club. That’s justice, baby. I read for about 5 hours to finish your story yesterday.

With the ass-kicking spirit of Ms. Salander in my head, I went to work today, without the golf club. My assignment as a KICK ASS ART DEALER (sans tattoos) was to ascend to our ATTIC storage space and curate an exhibition from what I found up there for a specific artist whom I VERY MUCH ADMIRE. She was the impetus to overcome any of my fears as she had overcome her own in a way that Lisbeth would admire, and then some.

Sure, Boss. I’m on it!

I said all this knowing that I am terrified of heights and had only been in the attic once and that was really only halfway up the ladder. So really I HAD NEVER BEEN ALL THE WAY UP INTO THE ATTIC. This ladder is like a fire escape ladder. It’s high. HIGH! I have a fear of heights in the sense that high points create a sort of vertigo and disorientation that is as if the earth has tilted and we are all sliding uncontrollably into the abyss…

But guess who doesn’t have a fear of heights? Yeah, Lisbeth Salander. She wouldn’t be crying in her Swedish soup about having to climb a ladder and look at some art. She would have been up that ladder with one hand taped behind her back holding a taser just in case some jerk accosted her leather clad leg on the way up.

So, heck yeah! I was going up into the attic (sans taser, but I do have MACE in my desk drawer, so that’s kind of international intrigue spy-ish). I put on my running clothes, because it is dusty up there and I would have to crawl on my knees. My Nikes took me straight up the iron ladder and into the heart of our business. Row after row after row of beautiful paintings. Really, cubicles of visual jewels that would put many museums to shame.

I got the job done. I curated an entire show in my track suit, on my knees, twenty feet above our commercial business, because there was no time to be a wuss. It was time to kick some curator ass in a hot and sweaty, close space.

In the process I came across a box of paintings that hadn’t been looked at in a long time. Sorting through them, I found my next art purchase. A quick sketch by COLIN CAMPBELL COOPER of some swans, circa 1900. We have a hundred sketches by this artist, but it was the artist’s impulsive swan sketch that caught my eye. Not the cathedrals, not the more famous Orientalist paintings, not the European street sketches, not the work that warrants thousands of Kroner on the international art market. It was a simple sketch of swans on a blank page that got me. Go figure.

Thanks to STIEG LARSSON and Lisbeth Salander, I was inspired to kick some ass in our attic by curating an exhibition and procuring my next  art purchase. It’s not a Dragon and it will never be a tattoo. I don’t know yet what Lisbeth’s Dragon means to her, but the Swans, to me, speak of childhood and peace and the magic of memories that come to mind in the space between waking and sleep (which decidedly does NOT sound very kick ass).

Thanks Stieg. And thanks, FRANK, for access to some of the finest art archives in the world. You create the space for us to kick some ART DEALING ASS, with or without tattoos.

Miss MoL

Regular SEXYNAKEDWOMEN Blog SEXYNAKEDWOMEN Post

Tags

art, blog titles, gallery, SEXYNAKEDWOMEN, Willem De Kooning

Willem De-Kooning, Woman and Bicycle. My favorite abstract expressionist.

DID THE POST TITLE GET YOUR ATTENTION?

I’ve been reading today about how to stimulate traffic to one’s blog as well as get picked up by more search engines. It would seem to be the consensus that catchy, controversial post titles are one of the keys to success in both areas.

So, apparently my weekly post titled SCREENPLAY ON A MONDAY (which is pretty much NEVER on a Monday, but that’s beside the point) does exactly nothing for my blog traffic or visibility in cyber world. It’s too boring. Too simple.

If I titled it THE EPIC SCREENPLAY POST THAT INCLUDES A LOT OF SEX, NAKEDNESS, PIRATES, SWEAR WORDS, AND FREE MONEY FOR EVERY READER I would probably get more traffic. Because everyone knows sex sells,  most people are intrigued by pirates (thanks to Jonny Depp), and who doesn’t want money? At the very least it would get your attention long enough for you to click the link.

At the gallery in which I work we are often trying to come up with catchy titles for our exhibits that will drive traffic into the gallery as well as make a lasting impression upon people who see the exhibit so that 5 years from now they will say, “Remember that *SUPER CATCHY EXHIBIT TITLE*? That was cool and how clever of them to have such a super catchy exhibit title that I still remember five years later and, honey, we should BUY A PAINTING based on that fact alone! Where’s my check book?”

The gallery owner and I were musing over possible upcoming exhibition titles the other day and I said,

“Well, you and I both know that SEX sells.”

He said, “Yes it does. What are you suggesting?”

I said, “How about an exhibit titled “A Decade SEXYNAKEDWOMEN of Abstract Expressionism SEXYNAKEDWOMEN from 1945 to 1955 SEXYNAKEDWOMEN in New York City.

Or something along those lines”.

And he said, “Blondie, I think you’re on to something”.

Now let’s just see how many spam comments I get from using this post title….

Cheers,

Miss SEXYNAKEDWOMEN MoL

THE HAPPINESS CONUNDRUM

Tags

Aging, blogging, Gretchen Rubin, Happiness, Melancholy, The Pioneer Woman, W.H. Auden

A favorite from my art collection.

WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN YEARS OLD, the more heart broken and forlorn I was, the more I wrote in my journal. Pages and pages (did I mention pages?) of teenage melancholy punctuated by a big sad-face icon. At one point in my THIRTIES I burned those journals  in my fireplace as a  testament to leaving that crap behind.

In my FORTIES I find I cannot write unless I am feeling happy. Conversely, I find I become happy (or happy-ER) once I begin writing. The deal with this blog was to share the happy, sarcastic, chuckle-icious moments with the internet world.

I was once labeled by a friend as being like HOLLY GO-LIGHTLY. Honestly? These days I have not been feeling very Go-Lightly, therefore not writing much at all. Last week I posted a hopeful Shakespearean sonnet. This week all that’s running through my brain is the funereal poem by W.H. AUDEN.

If I’m going to share globally it should be the happy-go-lucky part of my personality. Right?  Why would I put my mid-life melancholia out into the forever land of the interwebs? You can’t burn it later on in your FIFTIES. *Sigh* God forbid I end up withe BLACK CLOUD OF THE BLOGGING WORLD Award.

Look at The Pioneer Woman. She is NEVER down. Every post is BEAUTIFUL HUSBAND! ADORABLE CHILDREN! INTERESTING RANCH LIFE! GORGEOUS PHOTOS OF FOOD! DARLING DOGS!  There is never a post about angst or melancholy and I love her for that.

So, where does that leave me? In a tough time. In a melancholy place that is certainly more informed than when I was fifteen. In a place that I thought was one thing and has become another. In a place that is new territory and therefore frightening. In place that makes me realize that regardless of how old we think we are, how much we think we have learned, there is always more. For better and for worse. And under this dark cloud right now I choose to see it for the better.

DEAR INTERNET, bear with me and thank you for providing a place to write my way to a better place. In keeping with my recent post about Annie Lennox and the List of 1,000 BEAUTIFUL THINGS, here is a partial list of  beautiful things that make me happy;

– Waking up knowing that all you have to do is whatever you want and hopefully it will involve coffee in bed,  the person you love,  and a good book.

-Good French or Italian movies (or even bad ones make me happy – who am I kidding)

– Beaches and Sunshine

– Kittens!

– Speaking Italian

– Wandering through an ancient city for the first time

– My daughter

– My family

– An exceptional piece of art

– Summertime

– Fireflies

– String quartets

– Cathedral bells ringing (although those can trigger melancholy as well)

– Love letters, love letters, love letters (sending and receiving)

Well, I do feel better after writing this post. I wouldn’t say happy. But maybe happy-ISH.

What are the things that make you happy? What are the things that take away your  black clouds if you ever have them? Let’s swap lists.

Onward,

Miss Holly Go-Lightly-ish

PS: If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend THE HAPPINESS PROJECT, by Gretchen Rubin. Based on the subject of this post, I should probably re-read it.