what are you waiting for?

and it seems like only yesterday his art was on my fridge...

Last week, Matt hung his work

 in a group photography show at

 Portland State University's Autzen Gallery.  

  

Instead of an opening, they had a closing reception.

Even though I had already seen all the works in progress,

 I was still impressed with how good they looked on those clean white walls.

Father and son shared a touching moment

(pay no attention to the body language - apparently, it's hereditary)

Here's a group portrait of all three talented artists.

We trooped upstairs to see an older installation 

of Matt's graffiti series in the stairwell gallery

Seeing his work hanging in public made
 us so proud and impressed

...and it's so much cooler than hanging on our refrigerator!

invisible horses

Way back in the dark ages when I was little, kids used to play outside after school. My little sister Kathy and I were no exception. We had a TV, but we weren't allowed to watch it if the weather was good enough for our mom or grandmother to shove us out the door to get some "exercise" and "fresh air." (We lived in NYC...there was no fresh air) In fact, it didn't even matter if the weather was good, we often found ourselves roller skating in the garage on rainy afternoons with our friends, going around and around in tight circles until we were dizzy and giggling and falling down.

In the winter, when the snowdrifts blocked the garage door or Mom didn't feel like cleaning up wet muddy clothing, I'd sit in the breakfast room for hours, wearing down crayon after crayon drawing pictures of horses.

Horses! I was crazy about 'em. I fell head over heels the first time I was put on the back of a little pinto in the pony ring at Kissena Park in Queens. I planned and schemed and measured the garage to see if we could build a stall big enough for a small horse. I was a realist. I knew how big thoroughbreds were, having seen them at Belmont racetrack, but I was pretty sure a feisty little mustang would be quite cozy in there. I lobbied for most of my childhood, I think, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. The parents were not gonna budge.

My best friend Jenny, who lived two doors down from us, had a wild imagination. We made up new games almost every day. Some were based on television shows, but most came straight out of our crazy little eight year old heads.

One day, we were sitting on my stoop discussing our love of horses and lamenting our parents' shortsightedness. (They just didn't seem to get how useful horses could be: they were easy to park, and I would be happy to run any sort of errand on my trusty steed, Dad wouldn't have to pay for train fare on the Long Island RR to Times Square, we'd never have to mow the lawn again, I could ride for help in an emergency, etc.)

Anyway, Jenny and I decided right then and there, that if we couldn't have visible horses, we'd just have to get some invisible ones that our parents couldn't see.

I decided my horse would be named Chocolate Pudding. He was a dark brown bay mustang with a long, flowing mane and tail the color of whipped cream. I think Jenny's may have been a pinto. The stables we kept them in (Cloud Nine Stables) were located (yep, you guessed it) on Cloud Nine.

Over the next couple of years, Jenny and I, her sister Lisa, and my sister Kathy formed the Invisible Horse Club of America, and held shows in our backyards. We held jumping events, steeplechases, and races, and endlessly debated the differences between a trot, a gallop and a canter. We set up viewing stands, and led stuffed animal parades down the block on our trusty steeds.

It was a great time to be a kid. No video games, or internet. TV was in black and white (ours was, anyway) and there wasn't much on in the afternoons except soap operas. Our parents expected us to amuse ourselves, so that's what we did.

I miss Chocolate Pudding. I just might have to get myself another invisible horse...this time, I think maybe it'll be a Palomino named Butterscotch. She won't be any trouble at all, really!

I'll just go measure the garage.

the new hummers

Our friends up at Green Dog have been watching this hummingbird nest in the courtyard in front of their store for weeks now. The last time we checked in, there were two impossibly teeny tiny eggs...

now the babies are so big they can barely move in there!

Mama's sure got her hands full keeping them fed. She flies in every ten minutes or so with a meal for them. 

And to think I thought human motherhood was exhausting!

out of the mouths of babes...

the school where I'm teaching

I've been teaching after school art classes the last couple of weeks and have had the opportunity to eavesdrop on a few interesting conversations. The kids are in 1st through 8th grades, and some of the stuff they say to each other is pretty amazing:

"Did you know that 3 million people a year die from choking?"

"My mom had a secret wedding. If they don't let you get married you do it anyway and keep it a secret."

Girl #1: "My mom was old when they got me. I got adopted because my real mom was only 19 when she had me. She was still in college. But I wasn't in the orphanage or anything. They got me from the hospital."

Girl #2, with an air of superiority: "They don't have orphanages in America. They abolished them."

"I know a boy who had a cell phone in kindergarten. But he was only supposed to use it in an emergency. Or if he really really wanted to talk."

"I just don't get why my mom gave birth to my brother...he's such a pain."

Girl #1: "My parents met each other at a wine and beer tasting. My mom was the bartender, but then they got engaged in Belgium."

Girl #2: "Belgium, Germany?"

Girl #1: "Yeah. Belgium, Germany."

"My sister's really evil. She wants to take over the world someday. But for now, she just took over the fridge."

And in case you were wondering if they're all girls...they're not. It's just that the boys don't seem to have a lot to say, but I'm sure they're listening in, too.

this one time at art camp...

Ahhh, Saturday. I survived my first week at art camp and it appears that I may have actually escaped with most of my faculties intact...(mind you, I didn't really have a full set going in!)

Anyway, it was a good week. The kids were pretty capable, and most of them seemed to at least have a rough idea how the needle and thread thing works, although there are always one or two who are so clueless, you have to show them how to put the needle through the fabric and pull it out the other side. I sometimes wonder why they pick our studio (fibre arts) if they're not even vaguely interested in sewing...Maybe "Fibre Arts" is too esoteric a title, and we should just call it "Sewing". It's an exercise in patience, for the most part. I find it helps to remind myself that I'm here to teach this child a new skill, which may or may not involve learning to sew. Sometimes what they come away with is a larger skill, like problem solving ("Wow, that's a big knot! Let's see how we can fix it!"), or sharing ("Savannah, could you please lend Henry the scissors?"), or patience ("I can help you as soon as I'm done helping Sarah.").

Truthfully, this part-time gig makes me appreciate full-time teachers even more. These are people who dedicate their lives to teaching our little brain-dead zombies to read and write and become functioning, valuable members of society, and they deserve our utmost respect.

So, without further ado, here are a few highlights of the week:

You would think that only girls would sign up to be in our studio, but we've found that lots of boys like to sew...
and they're good at it!

We made some (purposefully) very ugly trolls...this one's name is "Mr. Freaky Freak-Out"

Here are some Icelandic sheep (some even got earrings and bells!)

There was lots of embroidery goin' on...


some very sweet moments,


and even the 4 and 5 year olds in the preschool group made Viking flags to wave in the parade on Friday evening...


of course, by the end of the day Friday, it looked like a textile mill exploded in our tent.


but then, Friday evening ended with music performances, a puppet parade, and a charming dance around the Maypole.


and all was right in the world.