I like to eat.  A lot.  I have a circle of four friends from high school in which I’m known for that particular character trait.  One of the four tried to match me once on our annual trip to small-town Pennsylvania (affectionately named “Podunkapalooza”–more on that sometime in June, when the trip actually happens) and regretted it for the rest of the night.  In fact, here’s a picture of me eating breakfast on one of those trips.

Notice the wall of condiments and beverages I’ve built to keep people from eating my food.

Okay, great, you get it.  I like to eat.  What does this have to do with anything?

Today I was saddened at the news that Maurice Sendak had passed away.  Sendak’s work was a big part of my childhood, and although I know Edward Gorey gets most of the love here on my blog, Sendak was probably equally as influential in developing my love of somewhat dark illustration.  As I read his obituary in today’s New York Times, I couldn’t help but be struck by the similarities between Gorey and Sendak, from their love of solitude to their depictions of childhood as a time fraught with perils to their prickly reactions to being described as “that guy who does children’s books.”  I can’t count the number of times my mom read Chicken Soup with Rice or Pierre to me as a child.  Nor can I recall the number of times I rushed to the children’s section of the Bethlehem Public Library to see if any of the Little Bear books (illustrated by Sendak) were there so I could pore over the illustrations from the comfort of my bedroom’s purple shag carpet.

So it is sad, for sure, to lose such a wonderful artist and shepherd to so many children’s childhoods (mine included).

Today, I read this excerpt from an interview he did on NPR’s Fresh Air. (And by the way, if you haven’t caught the fantastic retrospective on Sendak on Fresh Air today, check it out.)  It’s in response to a request from Terry Gross to share some of his favorite comments from readers.

Oh, there are so many. Can I give you just one that I really like? It was from a little boy. He sent me a charming card with a little drawing. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters—sometimes very hastily—but this one I lingered over. I sent him a postcard and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim, I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.

Besides laughing uncontrollably at this story, I couldn’t help but think that this is probably one of the highest compliments you could receive as an artist.  Jim loved the card so much, he wanted, quite literally, for it to be a part of him.  I know I’ve felt that way about things I’ve seen or read that have been so influential that I just want to absorb them into my very soul.  And that’s what Jim did–he ate the card, and it became a part of him.  As an artist, you can only hope that you might reach just one person that profoundly.  You hope that someone wants to eat your work.  I have no doubt, as evidenced by the outpouring of love in the comments on the NY Times obit, that Sendak touched thousands upon thousands of people that way.

Who knows exactly what that postcard looked like, but here’s an example of the kind of envelopes Sendak would send.

Kinda makes you want to eat it, right?

Rest in peace, Maurice.  Hope you’re enjoying the wild rumpus in the sky.

It turns out, however, that they’ve decided to forgo the gnomes on the invitations for fear of receiving an abundance of gnomes as wedding gifts.  They’re all for gnomes, but really, how many gnome-themed tchotchkes does one couple need?  Plus, there are some pretty tacky wedding-themed gnome gifts out there.  To wit, check out this little beauty:

And now you understand why their fear is a very real one.

So it sounds like the illustration will be used on the wedding program instead.  That suits me just fine because now it’s able to be my April illustration.  Of course, this whole thing got me to thinking about wedding gifts, our culture of “stuff,” and what purpose asking for a 12 place settings of fine china serves in this day and age.  (Seriously, do you really need a brand new set of fine china?  And if you’re the kind of person who really wants fine china, aren’t you going to inherit one at some point anyway?)

When my husband and I got married, we actually asked people to not give us gifts.  By the time you’re in your early thirties, it’s pretty likely that you have most of the trappings you need to run a household (dishes, towels, pots and pans, potato scrubbers)–at least we certainly did.  So registering for more stuff just seemed really wasteful and somewhat greedy.  Plus, when you’re asking people to travel hundreds (if not thousands) of miles and pay for a hotel room, it also seems a little demanding to expect them to fork over a gift, too.  I know it’s a cultural norm to give gifts for weddings, and I understand that it made sense when people got married young and were just setting up a household, but in an age when people are more and more frequently entering into marriage later in life, I think we need to consider what purpose the gift-giving serves.

We’re programmed to give “stuff” to people for all kinds of events, but what if they don’t actually need stuff.  We’re burdening them and our planet.

So instead of gifts, we asked people to do other things–bake us a pie, sing us a song, participate in our bike caravan, donate to our favorite charities or give us something useful, like Home Depot gift cards.  Of course, because we knew that some people would still want to give us a real gift,–cultural norms are hard to break people of–we did set up a very limited registry of things we could actually use, like a leaf shredder to make mulch for the garden and a swell pump for the rain barrel.  I’m pleased to say that we received only two gifts from the registry, but how awesome would it be if we didn’t have to set up the registry at all?  And no one would have to live in fear of receiving a tacky garden gnome on their wedding day.

And now, as a Pennsylvanian, I feel fortunate that I can vote.  And if I didn’t drive, that could be very different.

As of March, Pennsylvania is sporting a new law that requires all Pennsylvanians to show ID to be allowed to vote.  Why, you may ask?  Well, as the Republicans that control our state will tell you, voter fraud is a very serious problem that is endangering our electoral process.  They say this despite the fact that data points to the incidence of voter fraud being as low 0.00004%.  According to the National Weather Service, you are as likely to be struck and killed by lightning.  But don’t worry, the Republicans have this problem under control.  I’m so glad, because I was worried they were spending their time trying to figure out how to keep tuition rates at state universities low or how to keep gas companies from raping and pillaging our land.  Thank God they’re focusing on more pressing matters.

This law is a solution for which there is no problem, and it’s a blatant attempt to suppress voters who typically skew democratic in how they vote.  It’s insidious and disgusting, and it’s tantamount to enacting a poll tax.  I guess I was mistaken when I thought we had, as a nation, decided a poll tax was blatantly discriminatory during the civil rights era.  And make no mistake, this new law is essentially a poll tax.  It requires all Pennsylvania residents who don’t have a driver’s license–estimated at 1.6 million Pennsylvanians (or 17% of all adults in the state)–to jump through a series of hoops to get a voter ID in time for November’s election.  (Oh, and by the way, the GOP assures us that it’s just coincidence that the November election is likely to be a close race in PA between Obama and Romney.)  Here’s what you have to do if you want to get a state issued ID.

1. You must produce a valid birth certificate.  Photocopies don’t count.  If it’s in a different language, it doesn’t count.  If you weren’t born in a hospital and don’t have a birth certificate, you’re out of luck.  Birth certificates from the state cost $10.
2. If your name doesn’t match the birth certificate (maybe you had the audacity to get married), you have to produce proof that your name changed.  A copy of a marriage license costs $35 in Philadelphia.
3. You must produce a social security card.  If you’ve lost yours, you can get a replacement by offering proof of your ID (Wait.  Isn’t that what you’re trying to get here?  Nevermind, you need an ID to get an ID.) and a copy of your birth certificate.  (Oh, I see we’re back to that nonsense now.)
4. You must show two proofs of residency.  This could be a lease agreement, utility bills, a W-2 form or tax records.  What if you just graduated from college, can’t find a job, moved back in with mom and dad and don’t pay any utilities?  Too bad.  You can bring mom or dad to vouch for you, but you still have to show one proof of residency.
5. You must drag your ass to a PennDOT license office and have your ID picture taken.  The state has been kind enough to waive the $13.50 fee for a state-issued ID in light of this new law.  How magnanimous of the state.

So would someone like to explain to me how this isn’t a poll tax?  On WHYY’s Radio Times on Monday, a handicapped woman called in and described in excruciating detail how difficult it will be for her to be able to vote now because she doesn’t drive, she had to order her birth certificate from Vermont, her marriage license needs to come from Minnesota, and by the way, she can’t take herself to get her picture taken because she’s handicapped and can’t drive.  This is despite the fact that she lives across the street from her polling place and has never missed an election.  I would even venture to guess that the people at her polling place know who she is.  But that doesn’t really matter now.  She couldn’t possibly be who she says she is if she can’t produce an ID to prove it.  Of course, it’s just coincidence that she happens to be a Democrat.  Just like it’s a coincidence that this law disproportionately affects the poor (who usually vote Democrat) and elderly.  (In Philadelphia, 470,000 people don’t have a drivers license, equal to 40% of people 18 and older.)

The state’s bullshit machine maintains that the primary was a dry run for the November election to help iron out the kinks and get voters used to the new ID law.  But with turnout most likely being around 25%, the “dry run” was hardly representative of how things will go in November, which of course, is exactly the point.  By the time the problems with the law reach a point where viable court cases can be brought against it, the damage will already have been done.  The ACLU and NAACP have announced plans to challenge this legislation, but it’s unlikely that it’ll get resolved by November.  Isn’t that convenient?  The bottom line is that it’s an obvious power play by the Republican-controlled legislature to rig the November election in Pennsylvania.  And it’s very unlikely that Obama can win the election if he loses Pennsylvania.  Well played, GOP.  Karl Rove may be out of the White House, but his specter is clearly still alive and well in PA.

So let’s pretend we’re not the GOP and think about this rationally.  In a country where we have embarrassingly low voter turnout due to apathy, these same people are actively going to seek out opportunities to go to the polls to impersonate another person, when they don’t even bother going to the polls for themselves.  Do we really think that’s going to happen?  Let’s face it–we don’t need more laws that disuade voters from going to the polls.  And make no mistake, the voters that will be disproportionately affected will be African Americans, the poor and the elderly.  The former two categories generally vote Democrat.  But again, the GOP will have you believe that’s just coincidence.  They’re solving REAL PROBLEMS here, people.  You may still get hit by lightning and die, but hey, at least no one’s going to pretend to be you on November 6th.  I know I’ll be sleeping easier tonight.  And tomorrow, when I’m well-rested, maybe I’ll start looking around for another state to move to.

Since we spent Easter with Ben’s family, the Easter rituals were obviously different than what I grew up with.  Specifically, Ben’s family decorates Easter eggs differently than I did growing up.  My mom always bought whatever novelty egg decorating kit was en vogue that particular year, we hardboiled a bunch of eggs, put down newspaper on the off-balance kitchen table (which made things all the more exciting when you set the round eggs down on the table) and went to town.  Some years the kits were more successful than others.  I’m still mourning the fact that Dudley’s discontinued its Shake-An-Egg kit, which was kind of like the equivalent of Shake ‘n Bake for eggs, except the finished product was a pretty color, and it wasn’t coated with that weird crunchy brown stuff.  The Glitter Egg year, however, was thankfully never repeated.  (You have no idea how difficult it is to remove glitter from a de-shelled hard-boiled egg.  It’s like if you licked your skin and sprinkled glitter on it.  Gross.)

Ben’s family doesn’t do the hard-boiled thing.  They blow their eggs.  As a result, they get to keep their eggs from year to year, so there are eggs still around from Ben’s childhood.  I must say they make a very colorful centerpiece, and I’m sure that getting the eggs out every year is a little akin to getting the Christmas ornaments out every year.  It affords you an opportunity to reminisce on Easters past.

In spite of all this, I was still skeptical about the new egg-decorating strategy.  Before dying the eggs, they decorate them with permanent marker.  This seemed like it was somehow defiling the purity of egg-decorating, and I was initially planning on just dying my eggs.  Ben’s mom was even kind enough to hard-boil a few for me so I could take them home.  However, then I had a flash of inspiration as to how my eggs might be improved if I drew on them, and Ben’s mom had also bought some new markers for the occasion.  Ever since I was little, I’ve been a sucker for new markers, so I figured I’d give the whole drawing-on-the-eggs thing a go.  (This may not seem like a big thing to you, but just ask any of my family or close friends–I loathe change when it comes to rituals.)

As it turned out, this new egg-decorating strategy wasn’t so bad.  I might even venture to say it was good.  And in fact, I might even do it again next year!  Judge for yourself below.  My eggs are the owl, hot air balloon with rabbit and alligator eating an egg.  (Had to work an alligator in there, of course.)  Ben’s is the carousel with the upside-down horse.  Don’t ask.

And now I’ll get to visit the fruits of my egg labor whenever we go to Ben’s parents’ house for Easter.  Maybe sometimes rituals just need a little updating.

Spring has sprung a little earlier than usual here in Philadelphia, and as a result, I currently have the most painfully beautiful daffodils growing in my backyard.  The kind I have are not the sturdy trumpet daffodils you often see in public landscaping.  The ones in my backyard are dainty and delicate, and the corona is a bright orange, while the petals are a perky yellow color.  I’ve always loved daffodils because they’re one of the first signals that Mother Nature is awakening from her wintry slumber and bringing new life.

I’ve also been increasingly inspired by traditional botanical illustration because of its intricacy.  Some of the illustrations just blow my mind in terms of detail.

So it only seemed fitting that this month’s illustration subject should be the daffodils in my backyard.  Coincidentally, I also happened to relocate my fine-tipped pen nib, so I was able to reflect their delicacy in my line.  It all worked out quite nicely, as you can see below.

Happy Spring, everyone!

So when I walked into The Sustainability Workshop last week to hang out for the morning, it was like walking into a whole new educational world.  Nothing could have been more different from the high school experience I had.  High school seniors were working in light-filled rooms on projects they were genuinely excited about.  There was meaningful discourse and witty banter going on between teachers and students.  And the building itself…well, let’s just say it’s about the furthest away you can get from the drab gray environment I spent four years of my life in.  It was exhilarating to say the least.

The Sustainability Workshop is a senior year program for high school students from three different public schools in Philly.  Kids come up with projects they’re excited about, they form project teams, and they solve meaningful real-world problems.  They get regular progress reports, and because we (unfortunately) live in a standards-based educational world, their progress gets mapped to standards and the students receive grades on their high school transcript.  I was lucky enough to be invited to spend the morning there by my friend, Mike Clapper, who’s one of the founders of the program.  I floated around from team to team learning about what they were doing and offering guidance where I could. As you might imagine, because the workshop is focused on sustainability, the projects generally skew more towards math and science-related topics, but one group was researching the Dream Act and working on how to increase awareness of and garner support for it.

It was while I was sitting in on a discussion between that group and Clapper that I had the strangest feeling I was sitting in one of the pavilions on the lawn at the University of Virginia listening to a conversation between a faculty member and a group of students.  If I had closed my eyes, you could’ve told me that was where I was, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.  These kids were passionate, inquisitive and well-spoken, and the discourse was better than some I’ve heard at the college-level.  It was pretty cool, and I was a little jealous that I don’t get to be a student there.  Even though I really didn’t like high school, I’d go back in a heartbeat if I could go somewhere like this place.

I think there’s something really empowering about allowing students to be more self-directed in their learning process–to take responsibility for their education and learn how to learn on their own.  The model for the workshop is awesome because it uses the framework of a project that a student is actually interested in to teach the core skills–math, science, writing–one would learn in a traditional classroom setting.  Additionally, these kids are learning how to work and communicate with each other on a daily basis.  When I showed up, I sensed none of that “who is this strange adult, and why is she telling me how to do things?” skepticism you often get from high-schoolers.  Instead, everyone was excited to tell me about what they were doing and listen to ideas about how they could do it better.  And when you think about it, it’s no wonder they’re excited.  Because they get to work on something meaningful.  And isn’t that really what everyone wants–to do meaningful work?  There’s something really powerful about allowing students to do that while they’re still in high school.

I think a lot about education. I think about how our current standards-based system is failing the vast majority of our school-aged children.  I think about how we push graduating seniors to take on massive amounts of debt to go to college even if it’s not right for them.  I think about how we don’t give students enough opportunities to figure out what it is they may really like to do when they finish school before we demand they choose a major.  I think about how we don’t really support and encourage women who want to pursue engineering or the sciences.  And then I think about the fact that, if I have children, I may have to send them into an educational system that is fundamentally broken.

But then I see a place like The Sustainability Workshop, where education is clearly working, and I am completely inspired.  Sure, they may only be serving 27 students right now, but I am hopeful that there is a slow but steady push to change the way we educate our youth.  And I am energized to help that push in whatever small way I can.  I’ve already been invited back, and I’m certainly excited to go.  In fact, they may have a hard time getting rid of me.  Who knew going back to high school could be so fun?

Of course, this turned out to be utter garbage, and after giving my brain some space by driving several hours, playing in the pit orchestra for a show, and sleeping on it, I realized that in fact, what I had come up with was pretty great.  The good thing is that I know my brain likes to play this game with me.  In fact, it does it almost every time I try to create something.  And I know that if I just give it time, that part of my brain that tells me whatever I do isn’t good enough will finally turn off and let me get some real work done.  But at hour three, it’s pretty frustrating.

The thing is that I’m pretty sure I’m not alone.  I’m positive that other creative types go through the same emotional turmoil.  I just wish I understood why our brains do this.  A friend of mine suggested that it’s what keeps us hungry to keep learning and produce better work.  But on some level, it’s just not helpful, and it’s really kind of demoralizing.  And here’s the kicker–I’m doing it to myself.  It’s like there’s this little man (I imagine him in a brown suit and tie with a comb-over, glasses and a clipboard.) who comes into my brain to collect all my ideas, tie them up and then take a big dump on them.  What the hell, brain?

Sometimes it’s really hard to trust the creative process.  And it’s especially hard when it appears that the creative process is kicking your ass.  I find myself thinking (again, somewhere around hour three), “What if this is the time that I get stuck?  What if I can’t work this out?”  I know that if I just keep following the process, it’ll work itself out.  But what if it doesn’t?  There are no two ways about it–believing in yourself is hard work.

I assume this is part of the reason why not everyone is an artist or musician or writer or whatever.  It’s hard to push past the fear of mediocrity to get to something meaningful and awesome.  For those people, I’ll let you in on a little secret.  For every good idea I have, there are at least twenty that suck.  But you have to keep at it, or you may never get to that one good idea.

Tangentially related, I’ve been learning (and I have to keep reminding myself) that I need to give my brain space to be creative, to come up with good ideas.  It’s important to take time off and relax.  (I’m still trying to convince myself of this on a daily basis.)  To that end, I went up to New Hampshire this past weekend, and it was fantastic.  I find it hard to make time to relax when I’m at home, so forcing myself to get away is good.  Plus, we got to visit a swell country store and a cemetery in the snow (I LOVE cemeteries.), making the trip instantly worth it.  And what better way to find inspiration than in good food, good drink, and the company of good friends?  Take that, stupid brain!

I’m dedicating this month’s illustration to my friend, Lenore, who I’ve been thinking a lot about in the last 24 hours, and who could use a little extra love and good energy.  I’m titling this one Lenore Receives a Gift from the Great Mother Beech.

Looking at the little girl, I’m clearly still feeling a little Goreyesque this month.  Somebody stop me when I grow a beard and break out the furs.

Happy Birthday, Ted!

So here’s what I’m doing.  I’m renovating my back bedroom.  It’s the last bedroom that needs to be redone, and I will be psyched to have all the rooms–save for the bathroom–finished on the second floor.  My house is old, so the typical things that need to be done in each room are taping and spackling, painting, refinishing floors, and running electrical to add outlets.  But before all of this can happen, there’s the wallpaper scraping.  And after the wallpaper scraping, there’s more wallpaper scraping.  And just when you think you’re done, you remember that the ceilings have wallpaper on them, too.  And then you wonder, “Why the fuck would anyone WALLPAPER THE CEILING?”  (I’m told that this was common practice earlier in the 20th century, but really, unless you’re suffering from a severe case of poor judgment or recently had a lobotomy, why on earth would you choose to wallpaper the ceiling?)

So when I removed the last bit of wallpaper from the ceiling two weekends ago, I thought I was done.  And if I had had the good sense to leave the closet doors shut, I would have been.  But then my inner perfectionist started nagging at me and insisted that I investigate the state of the walls in the closets.  It wasn’t pretty.  (See picture on left.  Creepy, right?  And that’s the “good” closet.)  The walls had some strange stains on them, and to be perfectly honest, they smelled kind of funny, which is saying a lot coming from someone with a terrible sense of smell.  Somehow I had missed these two points during the last 5 years when the closets were jam-packed with crap that I really didn’t need to hang onto anyway.  (Seriously, who needs a dual cassette player anymore?)

So I’m sure you can guess what happened next.  I got the scraper out and went back to work.

The thing is that, as tedious as wallpaper scraping is, and as much as I curse up a storm when I hit those really tough sections that require a little more elbow grease, it’s really satisfying work.  It’s physical, I get to listen to NPR’s weekend programming while I’m doing it, I let my mind wander and contemplate how I’m going to invent the world’s first geothermal kegerator when I’m not listening to NPR, and in the end, I can see the progress I’ve made.  And that’s the best part.

I think working on a house is really good for the soul.  Peeling back the layers of wallpaper, you get a glimpse into the history of the house and the people who lived there.  And when your house is almost 100 years old, like mine, that’s pretty cool.  You get to consider your place in its history and the histories of all the people that lived there, and you feel connected to them in some small way by sharing this commonality of place.  And then there’s the really cool part–you get to leave your own mark.  It’s a microcosm of the universe for sure.

So that’s what I’m doing, slowly but surely.  I like to think of it as exfoliating my house.  I envision it taking a deep breath as I bring the walls back down to their plaster, removing paper as one would slough off dead skin cells from one’s body, feeling clean and renewed in the process.  Today I really did remove the last of the wallpaper, so I can put the scraper away for another year or so.  The first round of taping and spackling is done, and I’m well on my way to leaving my mark.  It feels pretty good.

Of course, this kind of thinking is totally useless, especially if you’d prefer to spend your days doing something productive, instead of just balling yourself up in a corner and feeling like you’ve never had an original thought in your life.  But I think it does point to a larger question:  What’s my motivation for making stuff?

As I perused Etsy, I found myself in an increasingly consumerist mindset:  ”I must make stuff that people will want to buy.”  I didn’t realize this was where my brain had gone until a couple days later, when I was obsessively checking my shop to see if any new people had viewed my items.  (And speaking of which, there are a couple of new ones up there–a reclaimed bead necklace and some hand-printed notecards (shown here)–so check them out.) Selling stuff has never been my main motivation for making stuff, but just the fact that I had a shop now seemed to be pulling me in that direction.  And of course, now that there was a shop–and this blog–there was a pressure to come up with clever new items to make so that I could put them up there and update my blog.  I was trying to come up with new ideas, then I would get anxious because I wasn’t coming up with them, and then I’d feel pressure to update the blog, and then I’d try to come up with more things to make, and on and on it went.  Not helpful.  As many studies on the topic have reinforced–and as any creative type knows–pressure and anxiety are two of creativity’s biggest enemies.  Luckily, this condition only persisted for a couple of days before I realized that it was dumb.

So, now that I’ve remembered that I like to make things simply for my own enjoyment, the creative juices appear to be flowing a little better again.  The only problem is–once I’ve finished making this stuff, what do I do with it all?  Sometimes I feel guilty because I feel like I’m just contributing to the vast wasteland of “stuff’ there already is in this world.  Does the world really need another candleholder?  Really cool linoleum block printed notecards?  I recently picked up a whole bunch of felt at The Resource Exchange (even though I had no idea what to do with it) simply because it looked useful.  I’ve been leaving it out in my dining room because I’m convinced that if I stare at it for long enough, my felt muse will tell me what to do with it.  (And by the way, if you see my felt muse, please tell her to GET ON IT ALREADY.)

I’ve run into this problem with paintings over the years, and even though I’ve sold a few and given a bunch away, I still have a small museum’s worth of works that have no chance of ever making into the rotation on my home’s walls.  I also frequently find myself working on the same painting for years because I have no clear plan for what to do with it when it’s done.  The painting below is a perfect example.  I was working on it when I moved into my house almost 6 years ago, and I’m still working on it.  It’s big, and I have no idea where I’m going to put it when I’m done.

I’m a little worried that I’ve unnecessarily burdened myself with this Etsy shop, making a hobby and stress reliever inch that much closer to “work.”  But I’m hoping that my experience of going down the Etsy rabbit hole last week will turn out to have proven helpful in readjusting my mindset and reminding me why I create.  Now, as long as I can stay off of Pinterest, I think I’ll be fine.