Yesterday I sent an email to my students reminding them that we are going on a field trip tomorrow morning to The Natural History Museum at Harvard to sketch. My wonderful student and now friend, Maureen, wrote back that she would be there and—’I always have such grandiose ideas.’

I LOVE that. The bigger the better! Seems like so many of us have been rather small thinkers and with good reason. I consider this a concern of women. When we Baby Boomers were girls it didn’t look like grandiose ideas could apply to us. I remember being ten and suddenly getting it. I thought that God was a man, Jesus was a man, the Prime Minister of Canada was a man, Santa Claus was a man, Mark Twain was a man. If it weren’t for Lucy Maud Montgomery and the Queen of England I would have shot myself right then and there. I decided that I, too, would be a writer because I couldn’t be Queen. Though, at the time, I was holding out hope that Prince Charles might cast an eye my way.

That was then. I’ve had plenty of grandiose ideas myself over the years but too often I haven’t believed that all is possible. No more. So, tomorrow, we nurture those visions in the company of one another after breakfast at the local diner. Stay tuned.

I popped down to the Art Center this afternoon to deliver some prints of my art for their shop. Yes, this is the same art center which rejected my paintings from their members’ show. No hard feelings at all. The program director is a truly wonderful woman, perhaps too wonderful. She said, ‘You are going to submit work to the faculty/studio artists show, aren’t you?’ I said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I explained that I don’t have much spare art lying around. I try to keep things moving and they seem to, one way or the other. I said I’d just been playing around this fall but I think I know the direction I will focus on now in my art. I’ll be going back to my paintings with words. I didn’t say I’d lost a little hope that my work might pass muster after the last couple of rejections.
‘Well, if you don’t have anything,’ she said, ‘take these things for the shop back and submit them.’

‘But, but…’

In my last post I cavalierly asserted that I like to say yes to yes. Well, here was a yes and I was saying no! Aha! I caught myself. Which probably means doing some new work. My other big project nears an end but is my impassioned focus right now. Still, one thing feeds another and the more the merrier, as they say. Onwards.
After that meeting I took a look at the show from which I was rejected. It was small, which means it was highly selective. I don’t want to judge but I can say it was a safe show. For the most part the work was well done and serious in nature. What I missed was the freewheeling mishmash of work that comes from a more inclusive attitude and incorporates a greater variety of visions. I missed the fun. There’s real energy in that. But that is coming in January with Le Salon des Refusés. Stay tuned.

On another note—next June there will be some sort of ‘happening’ at the Center around ‘telling our stories’ and I’ve been asked to somehow incorporate that into my drawing class next term. I’m so excited about this. I love people’s stories and think that art can be a wondrous way to communicate the common and uncommon journeys we’re on. Let’s cut to the chase and make our art about something. Let’s stand up naked. This will be a new way of teaching, with a creative focus. I woke up a four in the morning last night full of ideas. They will firm up in the next few weeks, no doubt.

Meanwhile, the paints are coming back out of the drawer and onto the drawing table. Yes to yes. And thank you. I really, really appreciate the kindness my friend, the program director, exhibited today in insisting I step up and try again. It’s nice to be wanted, for sure.

The Joy Street art show last weekend was a modest success as recorded here already. A few paintings and prints were sold and the show gave me the opportunity to dive into a series of paintings I might not otherwise have explored. Having a venue for work spurs productivity, for me at least. These paintings are not my main focus but I am an artist all the same who continues to make art in the midst of other work and to take it seriously—in a light-hearted sort of way.
Then this morning I discovered a note buried in my junk mail file from artist Sarah Shallbetter who’d seen the show. She is program director for an organization in Boston called The Art Connection which donates art to nonprofits including hospitals and homeless shelters. So far they’ve donated 3,000 paintings. She asked if I might consider donating one. Yes, I’d love to!

I like to say yes to yes. It always leads to good things. And I’m happy, of course, that Sarah thought my art might brighten the walls of some worthy place. Art is there to lift us up and I can’t really think of a better use for it. So, even though the work didn’t sell, it may have found just the home it needed. Another affirmation that all is perfect. And that the rewards of rejection, if we can call it that, are great!

In the open studio show I participated in this weekend I teamed up with with my friend, photographer Mark Peterson, and met hundreds of people who streamed through to view our work. Mark’s studio mate, Kristen Breiswith, also exhibited some prints of her beautiful paintings that Mark made. An interesting development in art, I think, is the way new technology has created the ability to make really sharp reproductions that are affordable. It didn’t mean that people were splashy with the dough though. Art still seems to require courage when it comes to buying.

I visited the studio of one young woman artist who looked like she was somewhere between six and twenty-six, her hair in pigtails, her tight black skirt way above her knees, her legs bare save for knee socks, her feet clad in heavy black boots, her lips smeared with dark lipstick, her face pale. Her work had a kind of punk quality that veered between anger and serene beauty—scrawly, spidery ink lines on old manuscript pages and antique photos. A disregard for the past, for preservation and a statement that the present moment and the hand trumps all. She had one gorgeous six foot long piece of paper on the wall covered in black charcoal lines so deep and insistent that the whole paper was shades of black save for a few holes of light. A dim vision I couldn’t help but love because it is feels true sometimes even if another vision has a greater truth for me. It was so triumphant, obsessive, narrow-focused and emphatic, so over the top, so real and, because of all that, so important. I told her I loved it and she thanked me shyly and said it was all about the light. I said that without the light it would be nothing. She said she’d made a couple of others but got so carried away the light had been obliterated.

It didn’t look like many were buying her work but—but if she hangs in there, if she stays obsessed and raw, if she finds a way to live, she has what it takes. It was real work. There are not so many people who have the courage to be truly present in their work or life for that matter.

Many, many people loved Mark’s incredible photographs and an art agent is very interested in taking him on—the best possible outcome for his day as his photographs deserve to be in the bigger world. I was happy to sell several paintings and prints. Thanks, friends! And a few others! At the end of the event we heard that it had not been a good day for most of the artists in terms of sales. It’s not the best venue for seeing art.  It’s dazzling to see so much all at once but it’s still an important chance all the same for artists to share what they’re doing. Considering how little art is valued in this culture it’s fabulous how many are making a practice of it. Under the surface of this culture we live in the human spirit forges on.

Thanks to my great friend, Sally, who discovered that Maira Kalman and Roz Chast were going to give a talk at the ICA (the new Institute of Contemporary Art) tonight and snagged two tickets. I adore both of these artists. Kalman is a writer and illustrator, has written 12 children’s books, collaborated with designers like Isaac Mizrahi and Kate Spade, and done New Yorker covers. Chast is a New Yorker cartoonist and recently collaborated with Steve Martin on an alphabet book for kids. It was so great to hear them speak tonight because they are wildly devoted to their wildness and we got to see their work and hear them talk about it. It was especially great to see that Kalman has a new book—
The Principles of Uncertainty

Sally and I each bought copies immediately. I flipped through the book in the half-lit auditorium straining my eyes until they were hardly fit for the drive home in my wee, ancient Miata. We stuck to the right hand lane of Storrow Drive and I kept the speed down to less than 30 mph. Sally clutched the books to her bosom. We paid full price and I see now we could have had them for half the money on Amazon, but not so immediately and we needed them that badly.

Roz Chast was incredibly funny and effortlessly, sincerely, self-effacingly so. You could only wish she was your best friend even though you love your best friend very much. You would be glad to ink her into your address book and hope to have jolly evenings with a bottle of wine and a few steamed mussels in an Italian restaurant somewhere, anywhere. She was that nice. And funny. And we get to see her cartoons every week in The New Yorker. She submits seven every week just to have one accepted and sometimes none. But usually one.

Roz’s new book is—Theories of Everything
It was a life-changing night. I’m having quite a few of late. The changes are so rapid and, well, exhilarating that I’m forced to take notes. Note 734—art need not be black or even serious. Humor is fine as in life. A saving grace. A grace, at least. I can now see light in the tunnel. Thank you, thank you, Maira and Roz.

And this morning my friend, the photographer, Mark Peterson and I hung our show that opens this weekend at the Joy Street Studios in Somerville, right outside Boston.  It was an art day and a great one.  More soon.

We had a visitor to our drawing class on Saturday, Etta, the 84 year old mother of one of our members who was up from New York. I introduced Etta as a famous New York artist and she laughed. At the beginning of class we all sit around a table and talk about our various art explorations. Sometimes people share some of the work they’ve done. Etta said that in her day no one learned art in school. The amazing thing is that she was willing to dive right in with the rest of us and give it a whirl. Go Etta! She was a great inspiration.

We paired off and drew each other this week. At first everyone groaned. We all love drawing things from nature. It’s forgiving for one thing and the results are usually pleasing. But everyone soon jumped in and it was good fun to see the results. I took all the drawings and spread them out on the floor and we had to guess who they were and who the artist was. There were some good laughs. My drawing of Mimi looked like Beethoven.

As the teacher, I am walking a fine line between offering a good time and push, push, pushing. I really don’t care if we draw accurately what’s in front of us. I’m aiming instead that we get to the place of freedom where the constrictions of our minds play less of a part in what we do. That’s why I love explorations and mistakes—they are so interesting. And it’s why the exercise we did this week was a good one. No one has mastery in this kind of drawing.

Speaking of mastery—Connie said she’d been to a conference where a scientist talked about a new theory of intelligence. It used to be thought that we were born with a certain intelligence and then we died with it. In fact, it seems as if we grow our intelligence depending on the things we do all through our lives. The scientist claimed that the ability to make art or music or whatever is not so much inborn as it is a question of the hours we put into it. I’m not sure I agree completely as I’m pretty sure no amount of time would improve my singing but then I’m not compelled to sing. Perhaps that’s it. Anyway, his claim was that 10,000 hours will make anyone an expert at anything. It’s a lot of hours. Singing is definitely out in my case.

I do think we all have an artist within and that it takes different forms. And it is true that we do get better at whatever our chosen practice is with time. But, for me, art is a constant exploration—not something that’s mastered. There are skills that can be developed but it’s a practice really, for me, at least. And I have to say there was a lot of fun in doing the practice this Saturday even when most of us ‘failed’ to capture our subject with any accuracy. The fact that we could laugh was the great success and dear Etta led the charge.

The drawing here is from last week—I’ll try to photograph one of the ‘portraits’ later.

Next weekend I am in an open studios art show.  Should be fun.  The work is done for it and I dive back into my writing full force.  Who knows how many hours I’ve wracked up there but a few more to go and this present project, my novel, The Laughter Club of India / Quebec Division will be done.  But now, on this chilly Sunday afternoon in New England, time for a hot cup of tea!

Much excitement on Saturday when I told the drawing class, all of whom had been rejected from the juried art center show, that we would be mounting our own show—Le Salon des Refusés II, in January. When I asked the honchos if we might mount this show I said that I thought it was important that we celebrate both our successes and our failures. The director of the center dropped by and I thanked her for offering us the space for free. She said she was delighted and that ‘it’s going to be a great party.’ So, there you have it—success in failure.

We had a good class. I’m always amazed at the way people put themselves forward in the class. Some of our members are new to drawing but they put themselves forward with a lot of heart. There is no such thing as a mistake in our class. There’s only exploration.

One of our artists has begun to paint in a new way and has a concept for a series of paintings which is brilliant. Sometimes, as the ‘teacher’, I wonder where people will go with what they’re doing, if anywhere, or whether our Saturday mornings together are really all that matters. They certainly could be. Drawing and putting oneself out on the line every week is a fine, fine thing. It connects us with our courage. Finding the curious, interesting thing in each other’s work is a brilliant thing. We learn compassion and how to appreciate the good. Laughing together, appreciating each other’s journeys—is fun. It doesn’t need to be more—and yet it is. Art catches us and asks things of us. We enter into a dance with it and wonder what we can do, how we can surrender, what we’re able to receive, where we might go. So, when one of us has a breakthrough, it’s a thrill.

I’m away this week—but will be back for next week’s class. Lucky me.

Turns out the correct spelling for the Lord High Everything Else is The Grand Pooh-Bah. He is from The Mikado by Gilbert and Sullivan and because he is the Lord High Everything Else he is not the Lord High Executioner. That job falls to Juror who axed me and several of my friends from upcoming art show.

A note came from Sally this morning to say that Barbara and Steve have also been axed. Both were shocked but that night their dear cat Dewey, who’d been with them for twenty-one years, passed away. “A small stroke,’ said Sally. Barbara said it helped her put it all into perspective, as it would. We await news of other artist friends.

The thing is that last year we were all accepted and had a grand time at the reception. There was great diversity in the art chosen and it was all honest and full of heart. I’d already planned what I’d wear to this year’s do. That is how the mind works, let’s face it. A little bit of the old ego asserting itself, a big bit of F.U.N. The shock of our refusal hit hard—the fun had been taken from us.

But this morning The Grand Pooh-Bah whispered in my ear—don’t forget Manet and Le Salon des Refusés of 1863. I had my dates wrong in the last post. The official Salon of 1863 rejected 3,000 artists! Of which one was the truly, truly great Manet. None of us can even breathe the air Manet breathed but—but we do share this with him. We have been refused! AND we are not defeated! The Great Pooh-Bah whispered to Sally that we must have our own exhibit and so we shall. He whispered to me that it will be called Le Salon des Refusés II. 144 years after Napoleon allowed the first Refusés Salon, we shall have the second! In honor.

We will rent a room at the Art Center in January and in order to be included in the show you must have been rejected from the ‘official’ show. I think one half of the group must bring champagne, the other half caviar. We’ll go from there. The Grand Pooh-Bah speaks!

I was wondering as I stared in shock at my refusal notice what this all meant. How could I find the good in it? Lovely that it only took a day. I’m so glad I can count myself in such great company and that there is something better than being accepted.

For now, I leave you with Le Desjeuner Sur L’herbes, Manet’s brilliant painting that broke all the carefully modeled conventions of art and the restrictions of laced and bonneted society at that time with wondrous, loose splendor—and was the painting rejected by the official Paris Salon. His Olympia is my all-time favorite painting and I was lucky to make a pilgrimage to Paris a few years ago with my son, Nick, then 14, to see it in La Musée D’Orsay. We searched and searched that great little museum and just couldn’t find it. Nick said, ‘Mom, we’re not leaving until you see this painting.’ God bless him. We rounded a corner and there it was. I’m still reeling. It was that brilliant—fun and invigorating all these years later.

Manet painted Olympia, a high-class prostitute, apparently waiting for a client. He gave her the dignity of  the conventional lady of the house, a radical view in its time and now too, I think. Manet was asking us to look at repression and judgment. The painting has hints of Ingre’s Odalisque, the ideal woman, painted a few years before. Olympia was painted in 1865. Apparently the model, Victorine Meurent, went on to become an accomplished painter in her own right. But we do not know her name or her work. That’s another story. It could have something to do why so many of us, all these years later who have been refused in our little show, are women and still finding our way. Curious that the lone Juror is a woman. I will tell you this about our wee troupe—wherever we are as artists, and I think we are all in a grand place simply because art has seeped into our souls—we do know how to throw a party. Stay tuned. The Grand Pooh-Bah is coming.