Peak of the Paperwhites

All I had to do was wedge the bulbs firmly between some beach rocks I had around and make sure they always had some water, but not more than an inch.

I did an early watercolor sketch before they bloomed–see Everyday Art, January 10. This time I used oil pastels and gesso on black paper, making the petals with a stamp I carved into a wine cork. The real paperwhites are far more abundant than this simple sketch, but I get the feeling anyway.

The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini

I was reminded of my childhood in Pakistan in the early fifties at every turn in this extraordinarily engaging novel. Amir, the narrator, begins this seeming autobiography–it is that convincing–as the son of an upper-class Afghan man who brings him up, having lost his wife at Amir’s birth. The reader is not spared the horrifying effects of Afghan politics, but the real story lies not so much in these events but how different people deal with them. This is a novel about truth and lies within families, secrets that can destroy lives, loyalty and the long-term price of even small disloyalties, and how important it is to recognize how much we may not know about even those closest to us.

I found the prose, characters, and story so engaging that I stayed up two nights reading this book. The plot was believable until the end, when it started reading like a James Bond novel and there were too many convenient coincidences. I wondered if the last bit of self-inflicted violence was absolutely necessary. It seemed to try to prove a point that had already ably been proved.

Read more reviews of this prize-winning book.

Dolling up for Robert Burns

This year I’m dressing more conservatively–wine velvet and satin, sleeveless but no cleavage or hip-high skirts slits, like last year–but I’m coming down with a cold so after all this might not make it at all. One is expected to bring something Burns-ish to perform. Most guests are musicians and sing but singing is not one of my gifts. Being a teacher, however, I have come up with a game that I’m hoping will acquaint the 24 guests with Burns’ humor and style.

Burns suppers are celebrated all over the world. There’s even a webpage on it.

On a Portrait Roll….

I did this one in two days. The first day I drew it and started painting it with acrylics. Then I quit because I didn’t like what I saw and didn’t know how to fix it. Yesterday, I tried again. I got out a box of pastels which I’ve only used a couple of times in years and I colored right over the acrylic, which I’d painted over a coat of gesso on a cold-press watercolor paper block. Wow. There was plenty of tooth to catch the pastels but leave exposed a rich texture of acrylic. I didn’t know you could do this, mix media this way, but it worked. I was able to capture John’s likeness really well from a picture I took when he and Carol took me out on their sailboat on the Saginaw Bay last summer.

I showed it to them last night and I hope they liked it. It’s sometimes hard to tell and what could they say in my presence? Oh well. The bathroom is a great place to hang a painting that you like but that doesn’t quite go in the living room. I’d never be offended. Honest.

The Story of my New Website

Dylan and Ann Kuhn live in Fort Collins, Colorado, where Dylan applies his considerable programming skills to the virtual world at Colorado State University. He’s been keeping a journal for years. Share his adventures on the Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and his bike trip around the perimeter of the continental United States on his own website, Ann took this photo of Dylan and me last summer (July 2004) when I met them in Steamboat Springs. They’d worked themselves from the Mexican border to northern Colorado, three months into their Continental Divide project. Ann walked 700 of those miles. Then she car-camped and hiked in to find Dylan every couple of days to resupply him. Me, I drive the mountains. I only walk flat places, like the beach.

Dylan’s latest blog entry details how he built this website for me. Check it out.

The Process of a Portrait

It began last fall when I painted a portrait of an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, using an emailed photograph. No one knew I was doing this outrageous thing that I shouldn’t be able to do. It turned out strangely well, considering it was a first and I was just playing. When a friend saw it, she asked me to do a similar portrait of the man in her life. She wanted a painting, not a coulda-been-a-photograph, although she gave me a photo to work from.

I didn’t like the photo at all: I found the values (color intensities) too similar–no good shadows to work with–and the face-front composition truly boring. It lacked tension, motion, shadow, nice shapes. I prefer taking my own photos for paintings, but this was to be a secret gift.

To get rid of too much detail and provide some shadow, I went for exaggeration–extreme contrasts–black and orange with green in the background. An artist friend who knows her stuff thought it too garish and told me how to soften the extreme green and how to mix skin tones. That first effort looked exactly like Jeff Goldbloom (Goldblum?), whom my subject resembles but isn’t him at all.

I used skin tones for my second attempt, and proper, accurate coloring. I softened the green. The values evened out. Yuk. I hated it. I couldn’t stand to look at it. Worse, it looked even less like him than my Jeff Goldbloom version. The only thing that really worked was the composition: I’d tilted the shoulders, which made him look friendly–sexy even–and provided some interesting background shapes. I gave up and left it for a couple months.

Recently, I decided to try again. I went back to my green/black/orange palette, but I added some red and turquoise to jazz it up. This version was also criticized, this time by another artist friend, who fumbled for full minutes as he searched for a diplomatic response. I should have used green for shadows, not black, he said finally. Well, it’s your style, he said. Okay, he’s right. He went to art school, for Pete’s sake. I think both my artist friends were right, that I shouldn’t have used black, although I did mix my own black from alizerin, dark hooker’s green, some ultramarine, and whatever else it took to make it look right. It’s not black out of the tube.

Anyway, I emailed a preview–this picture–to my client-friend so she would not have to deal with a shocked reaction in my presence. We’d agreed that she didn’t like it, she could pay me a cut fee, as we call it in the writing biz. I’m not sure what it’s called in the art world. I have crashed this art party and don’t know all the rules.

She raved, She really likes it. I like it too. The high contrast brings out the strength in his face and celebrates his genuinely wonderful smile. So what if he’s orange? Andy Warhol might have approved. A bonus: the high contrast gray-scales beautifully, a plus for my subject, whose picture appears regularly in the local paper.

Paperwhites explode!

In this quick watercolor sketch, done with those Dr. Martin’s watercolors, this time I used a Japanese squirrel brush, which has a floppy mop with a distinctively fine point. I confess that PhotoShop does misrepresent some of these little sketches. Mostly I intensify the color. It’s a lesson to me, to be more bold with color. PhotoShop also teaches me to let go of nature’s palette and impose another on what works otherwise as composition. Here I simply clicked on the Invert option, under the Image >Adjustments >Invert menu.

Life Goes On

My current medical challenges wither in the face of the tsunami that has wiped out so many lives and broken so many remaining hearts. I listen to an update on this news as I write. My predicament is, for the moment, just a small mistake marring my otherwise vibrant life.

I love Dr. Martin’s watercolors for their brilliance. They really explode on rice paper, along with Japanese ink, but I seem to be out of rice paper at the moment. These Everyday Art sketches are just whimsical, easy play. Maybe they’ll wake something up inside me. Maybe they’re better than I think. Who knows.

Beaver Island Sketches

The paper is too thin for watercolor, but I love these brief little paintings. This is just how I remember the harbor outside my Beaver Island house. A road wraps around the entire town part of the harbor, a good twenty-minute walk. Everything–grocery store, post office, bar, restaurant, deli, hardware–has this million-dollar view. I like living within reach of three airports and easy access to almost anywhere, but I miss this remote peace.

I Learn to Stay Alert in the Medical World

My experience this morning at a diagnostic laboratory, where I went after a twelve-hour fast (no food no fluids) for routine blood tests, reminded me to take nothing for granted when I’m in the medical world.

This morning’s experience was of small consequence: My health was not threatened. But I was puzzled when the technician took only one vial of blood. I had read the sheet from my doctor, which I didn’t understand at all, but which showed three checked areas: two for blood and one for urine. So I asked the technician if one vial was enough. Sure, she said, pulling out the needle. I pointed to the second group of checkmarks on the form. “Oh I didn’t see those!” she exclaimed, and had to poke me again.

That’s no big deal. At worst, I would have had to go back another day, after another 12-hour fast. The reason I caught that mistake, however, was more serious. I learned to stay alert more than two months ago, on the day of my surgical lumpectomy. Let me recount it here:

The Day of My Surgical Lumpectomy

11:00 a.m. at the Women’s Center Diagnostic Lab. I am scheduled, I’m told by my surgeon, for a mammogram before surgery. She felt the first mammogram wasn’t clear enough. The lab is on the other side of town from the hospital where my surgery is scheduled and where I have to be by 12:00 noon. I have had nothing to eat or drink since midnight. I ‘ve taken no one with me for this appointment because, heck, it’s just a mammogram, and I was assured I could easily drive the twenty minutes to the hospital to arrive on time. So in no way am I prepared for what is going to happen.

I arrive on time. First, a nurse takes me to a room where the stereoscoptic biopsies are done. This room contains an elevated table with a hole for the breast to hang through. It’s very odd. I’d investigated this procedure because very early on, right after my first mammogram, it had been prescribed by the radiologist, but my surgeon decided on a surgical biopsy instead. So this is not the right room

Soon recognizing this, the nurse takes me not to a mammogram room but ultrasound. Fine with me. Ultrasound is more comfortable than a mammogram. The technician runs a sort of computer mouse over my breast, takes a bunch of pictures, calls in the radiologist, who checks things over. I ask whether they can have the films ready for me to get to the hospital in half an hour. No problem, the tech tells me. She just has to print them.

Suddenly the radiologist tells me he is going to have to “insert a wire” , a 45-minute procedure. The nurse begins leading me into yet another room.

It’s too much. I burst into tears. Not only was I not told anything about a wire, but it is already 11:30, I’ll be late for surgery, and worse, it’s my impression that the radiologist is going to insert it in the wrong lump. I don’t know if this misunderstanding is due to my surgeon’s illegible handwriting or if he is just confused by the fact that I have two lumps–one that I found myself, which took me in to be checked in the first place, and the one found by the subsequent mammogram. My surgeon told me that she wasn’t concerned about the lump I found, but she’d put an X with a felt pen on the new one so the radiologist would know where to concentrate.

Things feel out of control. I don’t think I can handle a “45-minute procedure” and I also am late for surgery. The nurse is very sweet and very concerned. The radiologist can’t deal with me. He calls my surgeon, who says to just give me the films and I can take them to the hospital with me. The lump is palpable (she can feel it) and close to the surface, she says, so she won’t need a wire.

12:00 noon at the hospital amulatory surgery department. Before noon I am home and am quickly picked up by my friend Judy who has volunteered to be with me through this experience. Thank God I didn’t try to do this alone. Judy and I go up to Amulatory Surgery and I am checked in, asked if I’ve brought the films, and shortly shown into a room with two beds and a tv. I put the film envelope on the bedside table and change into my gown and get into bed.

It’s not even 12:30 and my surgery isn’t scheduled until 1:45. I pull up the flannel sheets and the nurse comes in to put in the IV. I ask her to put it in the vein inside my elbow, as all my others are small and very painful if IV-ed. But she insisted on the back of my hand. It bruises the entire back of my hand. For the next hour and a half, I feel as if I am getting a typhoid shot (I’ve had several of those) that won’t quit.

The anethesiologist comes in, a middle-aged man, who explains to me what will be used, asks if I’ve had anything to drink and I admit to a few small sips. He is not pleased and makes me drink some horrible-tasting fluid. My surgeon comes in to say that I am next. I’ve checked on her credentials and I also like her–she’s upfront, no nonsense, all energy. She only does breast surgery and has been doing it for years. I’m not worried about her.

I wait. I am feeling crazy. I need to go to the bathroom but there isn’t one. Judy goes exploring, then helps me get my gown decent as I wheel my IV pole across and down the hall, which apparently I shouldn’t need, as no one had mentioned one. I am cold, so Judy goes back into the hall, hails a nurse, who brings me a pile of warmed flannel sheets.

1:45: At last, a team comes in to get me. But wait! Judy and I hear voices out in the hall. “We’re taking them out of order!” a voice says. The team vanishes. I have more waiting to do. I try to watch tv but I’m beginning to feel crazy. I pace the smallroom with my IV pole. I think I can’t stand it, trussed up like this. Judy says she’s never seen anyone so hyperactive, and she’s sat with plenty of others in similar circumstances.

At last they come for me. “Where are your films?” asks a nurse. I don’t know. I’d brought the folder from the morning’s film-shoot, the one they gave me, and I’d put it on the bedside table. “It was there,” Judy said, “and then someone put it in the rack on the door.” But it isn’t in the rack. No one can find it. They look for, maybe ten minutes. My surgeon appears, says she doesn’t need the films, and she’ll operate without them. Yikes. If she doesn’t need them, why did I go through that awful morning?

But I am not in control here. I am wheeled out the door, Judy squeezes my hand, and off I go down a series of surprisingly cold hallways to a small operating room, where I shift myself on to a very narrow, padded table. Both my arms are stretched straight out and strapped down. I feel like a crucifix. People I’ve never seen before surround me. One, I’m told, is my anethesiologist–somebody younger than I remembered. He introduces himself, explaining that he is taking the place of the one I met earlier.

And then I’m out. Bam. No time to count backward, just gone.

Next thing I know, I’m struggling to wake up. I’m sitting up in a wheelchair, and my surgeon is trying to talk to me. Judy is standing next to me. “It doesn’t look good,” I hear my surgeon say. “But don’t worry. We can always do a mastectomy.”

Holy shit! A mastectomy? I thought that was for the worst cases! I thought they did lumpectomies unless you were in really bad shape! I burst into tears. My surgeon is not cruel. She’s trying to be reassuring. But she also tells it like it is, and later I find I am grateful for this. Now, however, I am not reassured.

The surgeon leaves and a nurse asks me how I feel. I ask if anyone has found my films. Yes, she says. And where were they? I ask. That’s not important, she says. Judy says to me, I’ll bet they were in the operating room on someone’s cart! (Judy was right. When I later ask my surgeon where they were found, she tells me they were on the cart of the person who was taken out of order before me.)

As soon as I can walk, Judy takes me home. Home feels like heaven.

Two weeks later…I get a call from the Diagnostic Department wondering where my film envelope is. They’ve just found the films taken the day of my surgery. It appears that not only was the film envelope misplaced in pre-op, but the ultrasound films taken that morning weren’t even in it. I still had the film envelope, checked and sure enough, the ultrasound films were missing. I returned the envelope to the diagnostic people.

Fortunately, my health was not affected by any of this, but so many errors in my care were hardly reassuring and made my experience in the hospital unnecessarily frighening. A dependable level of trust helps one maintain courage when one’s well-being and even life may be at stake. Stay tuned for my relumpectomy a month later in the same hospital…and how learning how to take care of myself in pre-op pays off.