Honeymoon Roundup - Into the Highlands

After meeting our Rabbie's tour group at the Edinburgh bus station, and Ross, our fearless Scottish leader, we set off for the highlands. It was 5 Asians, 6 Canadians, 1 American ex-pat living in England, and us.

Before we got to our first real stop, Alex found himself eating an award-winning steak and haggis pie while I sipped hot tea. This was in the tiny town of Callander, and Ross's hometown. Alex said it was at the top of his list of delicious foods eaten during our whole trip. This was our gateway town to the highlands, separating the flatter, more urban lowlands from the mountainous wilds.

Kilchurn Castle

We soon found ourselves on the path between waist-high grasses on the way to Kilchurn ("kil-curn") Castle. This haunting ruin was used in Monty Python, and it was gloriously unregulated for visitors. We climbed into the remaining structure, through a dark enclosed portion until we found light and open air on the other side without a roof. We went up some laughably narrow stairs to a second floor and sat in blown out windows. It was gorgeous.

Loch Lomond

 Along the way we went through the Trossachs National Park and visited Loch Lomond, known to be the most beautiful loch in Scotland. As the song goes, "You take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before ye. For me and my true love will never meet again by the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond." Here is a sad story of a soldier who knows he will die, vows to return to Scotland through the "low road" underworld, and laments losing all the love and beauty in the world. With its reflected mountains and gentle beach, one can hardly blame him.

Inveraray Castle
This castle's claim to fame is that it is more of a daydream of what a castle should look like, rather than an accurate representation of its own time period. It has the Disney-like qualities that all good castles should, with parapets, pointy turrets, entrance bridge, and gorgeous gardens.










Its inside is light and airy, with a lofted atrium and large arched windows. The weapons on display are arranged in impressive, shapely designs on the walls. It is difficult to know if their aesthetic diminishes the effect of what the weapons are, or if the weapons ultimately make the aesthetic unsettling.

Up the stairs is a display of elaborate dresses and robes, with gilded trim like the rest of the furniture and crown molding. 

 Below in the castle basement, which can hardly be considered that way, is a lovely little tea room where one might indulge in a cheese and onion toastie before perusing the gardens. The cafe also boasts still shots from Downton Abbey, when they used the castle as a backdrop for some scenes of coming and going.

The gardens are primarily on one side of the castle, but their flowery reach hugs along the castle walls where one would generally expect a moat to be. In the area closest to the castle is a neat, rectangular clipped courtyard surrounded by a perimeter of flowers. The birds were fond of hopping inside this grassy area, away from the roped-off humans. Along each side was a walking path that branched off into more meandering parts of the gardens, and all along the way was an accompaniment of tall swaying blooms. If you kept straight on the path instead, you would find yourself meeting the rose garden, first with your nose, then your eyes. Clusters of rose bushes adorned this space, some of them climbing up a pyramid trellis in the middle. I would have gladly spent more time here, but the bus needed to press on to our seaside stay for the night.

Oban
Finally, our seaside stay for the next two nights was the charming town of Oban ("OH-bin"). Its proximity to a ferry service made it an ideal location to access the islands, and its array of restaurants and shops kept us busy while we were there. We stayed at a lovely B&B run by Kathy, called Alltavona. She is a bit of a joker and makes a fantastic breakfast, introducing me to the very craveable vegetarian haggis. For dinner, we ate at Cuan Mor ("COO-in more"), where Alex had a seafood salad and I had an autumnal-style veggie loaf with creamy sauce. Given the weather, this was just the ticket.

Honeymoon Roundup - Edinburgh

A wedding generally marks the beginning of two people (and their families) becoming one family. It only seemed right, then, that our honeymoon become a search for our own roots, across seven timezones, two climates, and fifteen days. Since being home for a night, I'm still not sure if I should be awake or asleep, hot or cold. We walked the rolling mossy mountains of Scotland and the steep rocky pitches of Greece, gazed into lochs and seas, found family, and generally ate ourselves silly. Aside from being an incredibly wonderful, rich trip, I think we came away knowing more about ourselves and each other.


Edinburgh

We flew into this stony city, dropped our bags, and hit the streets. We had one day to see as much as we could, but since the cities were not our main focus of the trip, we felt satisfied with our own walking tour of Old Town ("What do you think that is?" "I don't know. Let's take a picture of it."). We began by bolstering ourselves against the drizzle with a bit of lunch at End of the World tavern. When I say "a bit of lunch," I mean an hour conversation with the bartender and a traveling Irishwoman at the bar and the biggest fish and chips I had seen, its ends sticking out off the plate. Irish Joan informed Alex on the proper way to drink a Guinness (when the carbonation turned from light to dark just under the head) and whiskey (with no more or less than 5 drops of water). We talked politics and travel and food until it was time for our table and we had been initiated into the world of friendly strangers that would continue throughout our trip.


St. Giles ("Jiles") was next on the list, with its soaring archways and apexes. I'm a sucker for a good cathedral, and this one did not disappoint. While I didn't spend my time researching the history of the structure, I did pay my £2 for a sticker allowing me to photograph inside to my heart's content. The light was soft and glowy, and it had that hushed atmosphere of so many religious spaces that made me feel contemplative and peaceful.

 

Though it was July, it was unseasonably cold, even for Scotland. Our carefully-planned thin layers weren't doing the trick, and thoughts of our upcoming time on the windy islands made us nervous. As the man in the wool sweater shop said, "Ah, God, it'll be fecking freezing there." Perhaps this was a sales tactic, but they were half off and we needed good souvenirs, and they did authentically smell like sheep, so we both got nice, chunky, Arran sweaters. These would prove indispensable, which you can tell simply by looking at our outfits throughout the trip. We soon found ourselves at the changing of the guard at Edinburgh Castle, caught completely by accident and just before they closed for the day. For fun, here are side-by-side comparisons of changing of the guard ceremonies in Scotland and Greece:

We continued our trek around the city, passing by many pastel-adorned ladies in fancy hats that looked like they were spun from cotton candy on the arms of kilt-bedecked men. After a bit of questioning, we found out that there was a garden party that day at Holyrood Palace. Due to this, it was closed to visitors, so we found ourselves wandering around the outside of its impressive gates, peeking in like the surfs we are. There were a fair amount of official-looking people helping to disperse traffic and keep things proper, so I asked a clump of men in yellow vests if it was ok to walk down one of the bordering alley ways that had a cone in front of it. "Sure," he said pleasantly. "You might get shot, though," he added. Such is the ever-present Scottish wit.

Keeping out the riffraff 

Aforementioned alleyway

We nosed into apartment courtyards, admired raindrop-bejeweled roses, perused the Royal Mile, and got lost on the way back to our hotel before finding the spiciest buffalo wings in a labyrinth of a pub near where we were staying. We were packed and up early the next day to meet our tour group and set off for the highlands.

Are we there yet?

     My most basic artistic downfall is that I am always searching for "the thing." In my mind, "the thing" is a series, concept, or technique that will be wholly responsible for sending me down the rabbit hole into glorious artistic wonderment that will result in the start of my successful artistic career. Galleries will fling open their doors to me, articles will be written, former professors will send congratulations, buyers will adore having my pieces be part of their homes.

     "The thing" is not a slow journey of gradual discovery. It is the be-all and end-all. It is the destination. It is what I've always been searching for and it will perfectly communicate my artistic message. Whatever that is. Minor detail.

     Instead of finding "the thing," I hop from medium to medium, style to style, series to series, distracted by new shiny objects. I have fun and I learn in the process, but I also put absurd amounts of pressure on the current exploration to be "the thing" that I tend to cut and run at the first sign of a dead end. I am on a mental car ride with a vague idea of where I am going, but no road map. I take guesses at turns and go in circles.

     Logically, I know I should settle in, Find a good radio station, consider the position of the sun, maybe even ask a few people for directions. Experience has told me, however, that this is just how I operate. I get antsy. I ask if we're there yet. I have to stop to pee.

     Maybe someday I will enjoy the journey more. I might find a way for my divergent interests and thoughts to congeal into a neat little package. For now, I follow the shiny object.

Making "Meaningful" Art

As an artist (and I do not use this title as one of exclusivity or loftiness - we all may tap into artistry), it is easy to get caught up in comparisons. Some comparisons are good - those that challenge us to think more deeply and move us to another level. All too often, however, those comparisons give fuel to the mean little voice that tells us we are not good enough. They stop us in our tracks and make us question ourselves and our purpose. We take another person's success to mean our failure.

The truth is, success is a shape-shifter. One person's Nobel Peace Prize is another person's Got Out Of Bed This Morning. We all have unique challenges, goals, desires, and places. Why should our success all look the same? Why should our art?

Over time, I think many of us forget why we really love art. We may still feel it, but we let our goals and our competitiveness drive us instead of our love. A five-year-old loves the feeling of paint on his fingers. He loves to push it around the paper and watch it turn into mud. He doesn't care that it doesn't look like anything in particular and he doesn't care that his neighbor did something that looks different. He just wants that feeling of magic coming from his fingertips.

So forget about what is "in" or "relevant" or "deep." All of that will eventually filter through you and make a more elegant statement anyway. Just chase that magic inside your own hands.

Behavioral Therapy for Sufferers of AADD (Artistic Attention Deficit Disorder)

I do not have ADD. I am generally a pretty focused person, but when it comes to my artwork, my train of thought is about as steady as a hamster's. For as measured as my day-to-day personality is, my creative mind is like a two-year-old tugging my hand through life, saying "What's that?!? Oooooh what's that?!?" before I have a chance to even answer. I will begin what seems like a promising series of paintings or a certain process or a particular ceramics aesthetic, and just when I think I've finally found "my thing," I lose steam or find myself diverted on to working with oil pastels or cutting and assembling snips of paper.

Overall, I try to see this as a strength. I am curious about many things. I am multi-faceted. This works for me as a teacher, since teachers have to be able to show drawing, painting, collaging, printmaking, sculpture, and ceramics techniques. For that, I am glad. However in the fine arts world, this kind of hopscotching around is frowned upon. You need to be able to develop a series, a style, and something that makes collectors recognize you. You need to be able to delve deeply into your art of choice and make some real discoveries digging around down there. So what's someone with AADD (Artistic Attention Deficit Disorder) to do? Well, I've gone through many stages of excitement, disappointment, hope, and creative blockages that I'm going to share with you my coping strategies. Some of them are old hat, some of them may make something click for you. If I can help a fellow kindred spirit out there, I'm happy to have been of service.

If you feel excited about your newest venture...

That's awesome! Go with it. Give it a try. If you don't have time, write down your idea somewhere or bookmark or pin some images. Keeping these for a while (even after you may lose interest in the idea) is handy for when you may cycle back to this in the future. Don't buy too many supplies at first. Do small works and test things out quickly and cheaply. As you find your way and an idea that you can latch onto, make your works a little bigger and more involved. Post them to public forums and see what kind of response you get, but don't do this until you feel kind of comfortable with your work. If you are still early on in the process of discovery, even the smallest criticisms or questions will sting like Listerine in your eye. Keep it as loose and flowing as you can. Don't try to figure it all out too early. Avoid the impulse to overreach with connections that will hem your next work in. Let it happen naturally and once you have some pieces under your belt, spread them all out and see what seems to be occurring. Then you can start putting together/reworking an artist statement, thinking about the next step or where to show and the questions below.

Questions to ask yourself:
Does this feel like a series that could continue to grow in a related direction? What else can I do with this?
Do I like the work? Does it excite me? Is the process enjoyable or at least tolerable and worth the final outcome?
Where does this work belong (gallery, home, street)? Would someone pay me to do this? Does this have commercial implications?
How is this work unique to me? Am I just putting a bird on it?
How did this work surprise me?
Would I want to live with this work myself, or is it that I just have the impulse to make it and then never see it again?

This last question is tricky. I once asked a college art instructor if it mattered whether or not the artist wanted to live with his/her own pieces. He couldn't come up with an answer at the time. I've thought about it over the years, and while I won't give a definitive yes or no, what I have found is that one way or another, you as an artist will be living with your pieces. The ones that don't sell. They will hang on your walls or be stuck behind furniture or be stacked in your attic. The ones that do sell and reside in your computer image files, your website, and gallery programs next to your name. So at least for me, the newest and one of the most pressing questions I ask myself as I am mixing colors, picking sizes, and deciding on subject is, "Do I want to live with this?" Of course, this avenue of working would eliminate a lot of wonderful pieces that are out there and very happily residing in gallery spaces and museums. But I still say until you are sure of where your art is going, make it so that you don't mind having it around.

And please, for the love of all that is holy, do not ask yourself these questions when you are still in the idea stage. Please please MAKE something first. I have spent too many hours pondering possible projects in my head, getting very excited about them, thinking about all of these questions right away, and then nixing the whole thing before I did a stitch of art. I would end up soothing my depressed self with hot tea, scrap paper with tiny plans and sketches scattered and crumpled on my desk. You'll drive yourself crazy this way.

What to do if you have lost steam...
This depends. If you have lost steam for a project because you are on to the next exciting thing, don't beat yourself up. Carefully put away the materials of the last venture (don't get rid of them yet!) and give yourself permission to come back to it if you feel the urge. It's not a closed door, a burnt bridge, or a failure. It is one more step closer to you figuring out what it is you enjoy doing. Unlike your college years, an ex, or that great little Mom and Pop joint, it's always still there if you want to return.

If you are simply feeling adrift, unable or unwilling to make anything, that's ok, too. Getting down on yourself for feeling uncreative doesn't get anyone's creative juices flowing. Scale back and don't demand too much of yourself. Keep a sketchbook. No, really. I know everyone says/demands it. But a sketchbook doesn't have to be filled with da Vinciesque anatomical sketches and inventions. Allow yourself to doodle. Try a mandala. smear some paint in there and chop it up later. Pull out the pages you hate or work over them. Make something ugly and move on with your life. Also, read something just because you want to. Get outside. Take a picture. Take a shower. Look at art you like and ask yourself why you like it. Look back at past ideas you had. Talk to artistic friends about their art. Or stop thinking about art all together for a spell. Go do something with easy answers and predictability. It will all come back around. Open your little hamster mind to it when the time is right. Just remember to make time for it when the floodgates open again.

Weeding Out

     The weeds have gotten out of control with this recent surge of misty weather, so I spent a good chunk of the morning crouching, pulling, and generally getting very muddy. It's a funny thing when there is this dedicated spot of time that is spent doing a relatively menial task with no other distractions. I could have put on music, but I like to hear the birds and I've been trying to regain my focus lately. So what happens is that lots of thoughts run through my head. Much of the time, for some sadistic reason, they are not so pleasant thoughts. I could be thinking about the lovely long stretch of summer ahead, or travel plans, or art ideas, but no. Anxious thoughts, angry thoughts, are what begin to bubble up in my mind like some putrid tar pit. I suppose they need a chance to air out. I've gotten into the habit of always having something going on in front of me - screens, books, radio, list-making - that I have neglected some of the things that I believe are important to good mental health. This might include setting an intention for the day as I learned in yoga, or staying quiet enough to hear the rain, or sifting through some emotional baggage to put a few things to rest.

     So there I was, squatting, and pulling weeds, and getting muddy, and probably furrowing my brow at the thoughts that percolated just behind it. The weeds were endless, my back hurt, and I could feel the mud squashing through my gloves. Then I started piling up the collected weeds around the bottoms of my tomato plants like my grandmotherly Mennonite friend had shown me a few summers ago. She had explained that the weeds dry up, act like a mulch, and help the plant roots stay moist in hot weather. When I would complain about the amount of weeds my garden generated, she would look on the bright side, saying that they served a good purpose for the other plants. Her theory was that everything that came out of the garden should go back into the garden. After that, I was never able to look at the weeds quite the same way again. Instead of feeling like a never ending battle, weeding started feeling like getting something useful for free.

     The world is full of metaphors. No matter if you're pondering the ocean tides or plugging away in the mud, the rhythm of the earth can teach us a lot about our lives. If we were as smart as animals, we would learn to accept the moment as it is and be exceedingly grateful for the simple opportunity to roll in the grass. But with our big human brains, we need lots of reminders, and they are all around us. Just as I learned to be grateful for the weeds, I saw that I could be grateful for the other things that felt thorny in my life. Difficult people, situations, events - they are all sign posts for the ways we ask to be guided.

     Instead of mulling over those people or situations, trying to figure out what went wrong or why they weren't there or who was to blame, I was able to stop the cycle with a thank you. Thank you for taking away these people or situations that no longer serve my greatest good. Thank you for taking away opportunities that would not serve the path I am meant to be on. I want to be the best version of myself and travel a path that will help me to become more fully who I am. Sometimes people are meant to leave our lives, and difficult situations can push or bump us back onto the right path. It doesn't feel great, but it is a loud signal that we most likely asked for. Guide me, show me a sign, help me...I know I mentally say it. I'm trying to realize that the residual feelings are just a side effect. They are a learning tool or a reinforcement of the main message: Not that. Not them. The Universe has weeded them out for you, and now they are helping you grow. Gratitude is something I have to remind myself of, but when I do, I also remember how powerful it is.

Heirlooms

They have been in our family for generations. Or perhaps I expect that they will be, from here on out. My grandmother’s costume jewelry and her pastel colored loveseat. My grandfather’s bipolar disorder and love of squirrels. The recipe for Moon Cookies. The braided rugs that were as knotted as my Pop Pop’s knuckles. Whatever newest technology that will deliver “Brighton Beach Memoirs” and “Stealing Home.” An awareness of all of the lyrics to “More Than Words.” These are the things that I will point to and tell my kids – that’s us. That’s our family.

Then there are other things - important things - that I wonder what will happen to them when the time comes. What does a person do with the ashes of several beloved pets? Right now they live with us, in small ornate boxes, next to their pictures and the television. It feels right to have them in our cozy space, but instead of being curled up at our feet, they are packed neatly away on shelves. I cannot bring myself to think about what is to be done with them, because I cannot bring myself to think of the event that would force me to think about such things.

There are also the photo albums. I will show them to my children and explain that once upon a time, we had photographs that we could hold in our hands and hang on walls and put in books. There are pictures from the 70s, the telltale orange cast of that photo development technology. They have rounded corners and matte finishes. They are filled with young versions of my mother and people who I don't know, but who seem happy and somehow stylish in their crisp polyester outfits. They are laughing or looking at the camera with the awareness of the person behind it or the preciousness of film. They are wearing makeup and eating from nice dishes, because this was some sort of occasion where people were taking pictures. The fattest photo albums are filled with baby pictures of myself and my brother. They are cracking away from their binding after too many viewings by too many versions of ourselves through the years. Will he take his and I take mine? Or will we take each other's, so that we can remember when we are living states apart?

The various Christmas ornaments have always been owned by one of us in our heads, whether or not they were originally bought for us. Some are very clear. They are gingerbread people who wear "Daughter" or "Son" on their chests. They are school pictures set in crumbling clay. They are our names painted on glass balls with confetti inside. Others are vaguely but seriously connected to us through a story, a memory, or our simple insistence on always being the one to hang it on the tree as we turn on its music or pull its cord or sit with it and remember.

None of it means anything to anyone but us. If, years down the road, these things were to end up in a consignment store, they wouldn't catch much of a second glance or more than fifty cents. But to us, these fragments are precious because they remind us of ourselves. For now, however, the heirlooms I focus on are the seeds I put into the ground. They are unaltered, self-propagating plants that make ugly, delicious tomatoes, or strange colors of vegetation that have been passed down for generations. They are not made by corporations to resist pesticides, and they are not big, beautiful prizewinners at the county fair. They are just something that comes from my own backyard where the Sesame Street swing set used to sit until it rusted. They give us fresh salads and jewels of berries to eat on the picnic table in the unrelenting summer heat. I suspect that in some number of years, I will hear the names - Amish Paste, Black Prince, Green Zebra - and feel much the same as when I twist the Christmas ornament in my fingers.