Back to Grumble

It's time to break the blogging holiday.

It's midterm time in our college. Handing out grades is seldom pleasant. I've always tried to drop hints  along the way in hope to get through to some young skulls that unless they step up efforts, their grades won't be pretty.

Invariably, I have failed to impress the ones most in need of my impact-levelling message.

It means right about these two weeks there's much shock and distress accompanied by plenteous tears and gnashing of teeth.

Let me illustrate (exchanges not in exact words for brevity):

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Case One

STUDENT A (who accumulates five unexcused absences in half of a semester, emails me on morning the midterm portfolio is due): Hey there, I've been working from home. I'll be done at noon and bring my stuff to you.
ME (email reply):  Your excessive absences are a ground for being dropped from the course. I made attendance policy very clear on Day One. You are not allowed to work at home without first consulting and obtaining permission from me.
STUDENT A (shows up with portfolio an hour later, visibly in distress, tears running): Can we talk?
ME:  Sure.
STUDENT A:  So I have been dropped? How could that be? I thought I was doing good and I actually enjoy this class! I'm so shocked.
ME:  You've missed five classes.
STUDENT A: But... but, I thought I was doing fine. Look, I did this at home and it's turning out good.
ME:  You consider that good?
STUDENT A:  Yeah. Don't you??
ME:  That's the problem.
STUDENT A (tears gushing, voicing trembling):  I can't believe you think it's no-good. I really enjoyed doing it.
ME:  You cut classes, your work is regressing. I can explain why the work is bad. But you miss one more class it'll be all over. I could overlook your performance up to now if you clean up your act.
STUDENT A (looking up with hope through tears):  So, I'm not being dropped??
ME:  You have half of a semester to prove yourself.

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Case Two

ME (looking at a portfolio of about a dozen figure paintings by STUDENT B, chronologically displayed against the wall):  Tell me what you think.
STUDENT B (a hyper-sensitive, chronic complainer, cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat type):  I've made a lot of progress.
ME: You did. But you're still doing just average work.
STUDENT B (with arched eyebrows):  What do you mean?? I think I'm doing so much better.
ME: I'm glad you're doing much better. You would have failed had you not improved.
STUDENT B (in apparent disbelief): Ugh.
ME:  You struggled hard, and you've overcome much. But this is the third painting class you've taken, and I expected you to do better once you've overcome the slump.
STUDENT B (apparently flabbergasted, with a forced smile to stifle emotion, forcing each syllable):  I did. I think I've succeeded. What more do you want me to do???
ME:  You did very well in the Intro class. The still lives you did were very good. These don't measure up.
STUDENT B:  But this is not still life, I love figure. I think figure is more important and meaningful, still life isn't. I want to do figure the rest of my life.
ME:   What's the difference? In still life you learn to see form in color. A bottle is a cylinder, so are an arm and a neck. Still life in Intro ought to have prepared you for figure.
STUDENT B (breaking down in tears):  I don't know what to say to you.
ME:  And that, the tears, too. Where does the tear fit in?
STUDENT B: I'm...ugh, just so...frustrated!
ME: Set your earlier still life next to this self portrait, which would be the better painting?
STUDENT B:  The still life.
ME:  So? Although I disagree that still life is less significant than figure, I won't argue with you. What about the lessons you learned in still life? Your work now shows little evidence you understand color and form.
STUDENT B (still crying):  I don't deny anything you say. But what do you want me to say?
ME:  I guess I'm just telling you that you're doing average work.
ME (again, to myself, silently): You talk a good talk, your work sucks. 

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Some context:
College art instructors, it seems, have a special hair shirt in store for us: to tiptoe around criticism, often ridiculously looking for nice things to say about crappy work. The artlings have been told their entire pre-college lives that whatever they did, was wonderful. After all, isn't art whatever expresses yourself? If you can't follow instructions, very well could it be that you're unique and deserve a special delivery. I've conceded to and accommodated Student B's "unique" learning style, avoiding at all costs her avalanche of tears, her constant belly-aching and hand-wringing. I've high-fived her on her minor breakthroughs and suggested ways to accelerate progress. I've halted the entire class so I could paint a demo exclusively for her sake... Whenever I feel my patience straining, I reminded myself of her delicacy and "uniqueness." Her high-minded art talk made me believe somehow I just hadn't found the golden key to unlock her genius.

Must admit, no one to blame but myself. Two bright light bulbs: She ain't no genius, and I ain't her problem.

Feels so darn good to come to terms with truth. Heck, feels even better to tell the darn thing. I have a feeling that the truth-telling session is good for both Student B and me. Her tears soon dried up and I suspect I shall see them less in the future.

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Notice something in the two exchanges?

ME: You've missed five classes. You may be dropped. I made the attendance policy clear on Day One.
STUDENT A:  I'm shocked! I thought I was doing good and I enjoy this class!

ME:  This painting of yours is bad.
STUDENT A:  But I really enjoyed doing it!

ME:  You did better in Intro painting still lives. Your current work doesn't reflect what you learned then.
STUDENT B: Figure is much more important. Still life is not. I want to paint figure the rest of my life.

Granted, I speak English with accent. But I couldn't have mangled the messages that badly??

Gator

To my friends and random readers of this blog,

I've decided to take an indefinite holiday from updating this blog. The statement may strike you as unnecessary as the place is obviously uncouth, in disrepair and criminally neglected. Well, I just thought it would still be polite to stick a yard sign among the weeds saying "Gone fishing, will be back some day" to those who give a hoot. After all, I'm from the South.

If you would like me to hear from you, don't hesitate to shoot an email.

Thanks,

Izy

Who is Steve Gershom

In an earlier post I mentioned Steve Gershom and his blog Catholic, Gay, and Feeling Fine. Well, yesterday, the feast of St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, "Steve" not only revealed his real name as Joseph Prever, but also that the blogger Shimcha Fisher is his sister!

After blogging under the pseudonym Steve Gershom since 2012, Joseph "Joey"decided to take his identity out of the shadow. The post ended with a photo of himself, a handsome young man. The whole thing made me teary-eyed and feeling grateful.

As I was linking Shimcha Fisher's blog, I noticed that her latest post is titled "Steve Gershom, My Brother". I'm going to read it as soon as I finish my own.

I'm also adding Mr. Prever's blog to the link section of Izyperspective.

What I Had...

for supper on my birthday:

garbanzo beans, avocado, and boiled egg with Italian salad dressing

Yum. Thanks for the "recipe," Jan!

I Shop, Therefore I Go On

Yours Truly turned forty-six today. My reply to everyone who wished me happy is that I've been indeed happy for forty-six years.

Life is good. No complaint by me.

I had planned to start a brand new drawing on this day. It didn't pan out. My original ideas bummed out. I spent nearly two hours on a still life arrangement only to work myself into an unhappy (Ah ha! You got me there!) mental pretzel. KDM suggested that we got out of the house, perhaps I'd get inspired away from the ultra familiar.

Off we went.

And I went shopping, in dollar and thrift stores.

Take a look at my catches of the day -

Collectively: 

Individually:  

A wreath to call my own!

I've become obsessed with dots. 

Winter isn't all that far away, you know. Just look at the bow, the bow!!

My first purchase of seashells! I wanted to show off the prints and patterns and shapes of the shells but decided to leave them in the original package for the sake of uniformity.

I think it's a candle, but it doesn't matter. I bought it for the radial symmetry, and the transparency, and O that glorious shade of green!

Did I say that I love shadows as much as what casts the shadow? Look for me in the foreground. 

I'm totally sold on the stripes, especially the black ones; as well as the label: 3 BALLS, BALLES - it is unti-superflousness in advertising.

Again, GREEN! And look at the contrast in texture and pattern! 

Oh, not to forget this bonus find:  

The author is from China. I remember reading him long time ago. I'm intrigued by the title and the synopsis, mostly though, I want a taste of the translation.

Open randomly.

This looks good. 

What in the wild wide world ...???

Buoyed by my post-shopping mood, I snapped a shot of one of the countertops, with the camera set on a wrong mode. A little photoshopping teased out this much detail. 

Must the countertops in my life always look this way?? 

Unbelievable: Pope Francis Loves Gay People

The Catholic Church is about many things, yet in today's press it's really just about two or three things, you know, only those deemed important by the self-important Western world. Check out the screaming BBC News headline on Drudge Report, right below the photo of Pope Francis: "Who Am I to Judge Gay People?"

Surely a juicy entrée on the menu.

Read and find out more.

Update: Elizabeth Scalia takes notice (who wouldn't?) of the article. She, of course, has some worthy observations. I'm trying to limit topics I take in from the daily news cycle. This, I believe, is a good one to take in, and reflect on.

In the immediate aftermaths of the 2012 Elections, I said to KDM, the coming years will be the years of all things gay. It will be the issue of our times, eclipsing abortion. We are only seeing the beginning of it. However one feels on the topic, it will not suffer being unnoticed.

Concurrently, I've recently discovered Steve Gershom's blog, with a subtitle: Catholic, Gay, and Feeling Fine, Thanks. The writings are gracious, sensitive, and most appealing to me, honest, reflections of a person who grapples and dialogues with self and others. I've promised myself to read  his blog more often and thorough. I'm thankful he lends a calm and authentic voice in times of confusion and tyrannical political correctness and agendas.

Remember Spain in Prayers

The train derailing happened in Spain yesterday, the eve of the feast of the apostle Saint James, patron of that nation, was horrific. More than 80 people were killed. Based on the reports, many of the passengers were pilgrims to the famous shrine of Santiago of Compostela. The incident will likely provoke the question why God allows such disaster and suffering happen to His faithfuls. Why death to pilgrims on the eve of His Apostle's memorial?

As Catholic, of course, I know that God does not cause suffering. An accident is an accident. Wars and other violences and disasters do not take a vacation on the eve of Christmas, Easter, or on any other feast days. The train wreck is under investigation, a driver is being held in custody in the hospital by police. We have to wait to find out what, who, caused the train to derail.

In the mean time, let us not be indifferent to the destruction of life, and pray for all who have died or left to suffer.

Pope Scare

So this is what was behind the chaotic scene I saw on EWTN yesterday: the Pope's motorcade inching through an apparently unprotected (except by the secrete service franticly pushing and fighting back the throngs gushing toward the pope's car) streets. The aerial view broadcast was made from an chopper by, I believe, Vatican Radio. I was thinking to myself how in the world the organizers let this happen? There was no one there to control the crowd, the secret service guys were outnumbered. I was so worried that I had to turn off the live streaming.

Scary WYD Mania

EWTN is showing Pope Francis arriving in Rio de Janiero for World Youth Day. I'm a nervous wreck at the sight of the unruly throngs of screaming youngsters swarming the open-sided Popemobile. I no longer sees the point of the WYD, and fear for the safety of the Pope and the poor secrete service guys.

I'm going to turn off the live streaming and hide myself behind an easel upstairs. And pray and beg all the guardian angels on site to not even blink in that chaotic town.

Sigh.

The Subject Is Light

Occasional Foodie

I've been trying all sorts of new, interesting food lately.

Starting with Greek yogurt. I know, I know, by the time I boarded the G.Y. wagon, it's like a rash infecting every grocery store in town. Fad notwithstanding, I like the stuff. Some people suffer yogurt, I'm not one of them. Been drinking and eating the stuff since my early twenties. G.Y. is creamier than the other versions.

Then there's the granola - it's been fad so long it isn't fad any more. The biggest, chewiest one I've ever had was at a breakfast place in University Circle, Cleveland, Ohio. Good stuff, but way too pricey at stores. So, I bake my own. It's really just another way to eat oatmeal, which I like. For binder and sweetener, I use olive oil, honey, and molasses. It's so easy to make. Trouble is, I like to eat it right out of the jar, and can't stop when I should.

Hummus, anyone?  I had wanted to make this forever. When I found out the ingredients under exotic names tahini and garbanzo beans were no more than sesame paste and chickpeas, I took heart. Heck, I had a jar of sesame paste in the fridge right there as I studied the recipe. I had zero trouble finding chickpeas on my next trip to Wal-mart. Soaking and cooking the peas were painless, while the prep and mixing it with sesame paste, oil, liquid and seasonings required some TLC. In the end, I added some peanut butter which I believe was an improvement to the original recipe. We had shrimp lettuce wrap for dinner that night, and used the hummus for sauce.

Ham bean soup -  I spotted the package label boasting fifteen beans on the grocery store shelf. It sure looked mighty pretty, what with the greens and reds and varied beiges, and a packet of Cajun seasoning to boot. Only after I'd put the beans in water for soaking, did I notice that the recipe on the package called for ham or sausage. All I had was three hot dogs, which I reasoned WERE a sausage. In the Dutch oven they went, and cozied up with the legumes for five hours. My and KDM's verdict: it was very, very good.

By the way, the cooked chickpea itself is surprisingly delicious.

I'm not done with beans yet. Today I made my very first split pea soup, after listening to KDM talking about it with such fondness and nostalgia for year. In China we call the peas green bean, often made into dessert. According to traditional dietary theory, all foods fall into either the hot or cold camps. Balance among the two is the way to good health. The green bean belongs to the cool type, suitable for summer consumption. In the heat of the summer, beverage stands offer a drink made of its powder, sweetened, iced, and always jade colored, said to keep heat stroke at bay.

And, if sesame paste- um - tahini, is a deterrent to you, I don't see why you can't replace it with peanut butter outright, provided you don't serve it to any potential hummus Nazi.

For past four weeks, we've been babysitting two of KDM's grandkiddoes. We watch movies with them. Beside popcorn, I treat them to snow cones, ice cream, and popsicles. Last night, I took the leftover, fizzed-out root beer and an orange-themed soda, and made a tray of popsicles overnight. I was disproportionally rewarded today by its instant hit status. Who knew it took so little to throw the little people in party mood!

What new, interesting, or strange food have you been making lately?

Departure

I snatched this and the one below on the fledgling's Big Day.

The little guy sat in that very same spot all day, while the parent flitted from spot to nearby spots, saying tea, tea, tea,  now and then coaxing it to jump the basket with a fat worm on the ground. I spied all this while drawing in the studio.

Then, for a couple hours late in the day, I got lost in the drawing, after which I got lost on the internet, When I remembered the birds, it was dusk, and this was what was left of the scene. For sometime I wandered about the porch and the driveway aimlessly, feeling empty and abandoned. There wasn't even a goodbye.

The next morning, sitting on the porch with KDM and coffee, I spotted the family, in a short cedar tree across the lawn. We watched the trio, from behind the binoculars, having their first "outdoor" breakfast. Junior,  looking a little ratty, the exact color and texture as the bark it perched on, clutched onto a branch, preening and taking food from one of the parents. We sat and watched it following the parents, taking up to a branch above, then another, and another, higher and higher until our sight was blocked by the thick needles. That was the last time we saw them. The empty feeling I had the night before abated - I felt the enclosure.

Now we've gotten our porch back to ourselves, and it's time to heal the fuchsia. 

We Have Been Chosen

See that white planter with a fuchsia on it? Exactly a month ago today, we left town for a wedding.  Upon returning two days later, while watering the plant,  I was startled by a bird franticly flying out of it, almost crashing into my face. 

The little guy/gal had built a nest inside the planter while we were gone. KDM identified the homesteader as a wren. Further consultation with a bird book confirmed it as a Carolina Wren. Since that day we have all but stopped using the front door, been tiptoeing around our own front porch, and let the fuchsia wilt, nearly die, from thirst, as you can see in this photo taken about two weeks ago. 

Ten days ago, four or five hatchlings appeared. I took this picture this morning, of the apparent only one surviving into fledgling - I don't know what happened to the other ones.  I have been rather bitter about their mysterious disappearance and would rather not discuss the topic. From the goings on we've observed this morning, this is going to be a big day for the little guy. Both parents have been on the go and fro, in gentle and short chirps pleading and coaxing: on this very day junior is to try its wings.  It has edged its way outside the nest since I took the photo, and I've since moved downstairs with my drawing, keeping an eye and ear on the neighborhood, especially on the four resident dogs in case junior decides to touch down on solid ground. It really takes a village. 

Random Find

For three days I've been drawing with charcoal. Charcoal everywhere, on my hair, my face, my neck, my tank top and my shorts; charcoal on the floor, over the easel, under my fingernails. 

Hello, charcoal! I've missed you. 

Next to oil, charcoal is my favorite medium.

The artwork I'm sharing below is unrelated to my rekindled enthusiasm for charcoal. I simply came across it on Facebook during lunch break, and wanted to share with you all, knowing at least one of you (you know who you are) is a fellow Albrecht Durer admirer: 

Knot Not - with update

Am on the brink of giving up a painting I've worked on for 3 weeks. As the sentence indicates, I'm indecisive. But if I do, there'll be a mourning process. Call me a drama queen. You don't give up something you've hung on for that long without feeling defeated. Besides, there's enough good moments in the same painting, almost good enough to go on fighting for. That's where the bitterness comes in.

Yet, sometimes it's better to move on. My former resolve has fallen into a jumble, a gordian knot I have little skill to untie, and it's unraveling my confidence, and worse, poisoning my joy in painting.

I need a clean slate.

I realize that this talk of the pain of painting may be boring to my readers, but belching it out helps me think and make a decision. Even a little whining can be cathartic.

So bear with me when I engage in this sort of self-absorption.

Thank you.

UPDATE:  After making the above, round-about, announcement to give up the said painting, I took another look at it, and decided to give it one more chance. After all, I had nothing to lose. I worked on it for about 3.5 hours, and quietly declared it done. No spectacular improvement, but at least, I won't paint over it like I often do to paintings I deem unworthy of preserving.

Hello Again

Sure, it's been a while. So what if I considered calling quit my pathetic blogging only a half hour ago, and at this instance am back at it again? Just ask my indestructible peony (the one I bought five years ago labeled "Guaranteed to Grow," and which I proceed to pronounce dead at end of each subsequent growing season, and which resurrected every following spring), it will tell you that for me to pick up the pieces, the object of my engagement must be made of steel, persist in staring in my face daily, leaving me restless and guilty at night.

That's what this blog has done. And, here I'm back at it again.

But if I told you that posts had not just been scant, but near extinct, not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much to say that I simply let it slump, would you believe, and understand?

And I'll let you in on another reason for the days of not-saying-much: painting.

Unlike English, the grammar of painting is not second language to me. Line, color and shape are words I know at heart, in which intellect and instinct feed each other wordlessly. I search and formulate meaning in what I see, and delight in the pure act of seeing. When things go well I elate and exult; very often failure throws me back in self-pity and despair. Remembering the yoke of the gift and the promise of joy, I pick up the pieces and start over. At the end of a day in the studio, I'm exhausted.

It's a condensed explanation of how painting can placate the urge for verbal expression.

Placate, but not equal. And since painting is essentially a lonely activity, it cannot speak camaraderie nor utter names. There's anguish in that lonesomeness, and I have missed my friends whom I've grown fond of. Can't say I'm here to make total mends for my omissions, but at least sticking my neck out the cave to say "Hi!"

Art Ed Breeds Contempt

A couple of posts ago I mentioned that I had felt contempt for my students at some points of the past school year. This video may help explain what could cause such singular emotion to erupt within the soul of an college art instructor - this was literally a hair away from happening to my little flock:

Were You Slapped by Your Bishop?

In honor of Confirmation season, go over to First Things, read Brian Doyle's piece, which I quote below. Read the rest and laugh your head off. Norman Rockwell would have mined the scene like a treasure trove. 

I will have my print issue in the mail soon.

"The day I was granted the Sacrament of Confirmation and was admitted with full rights and privileges to the Church Eternal got off to a slow start, because the bishop was late. There had been a rain delay at the Mets game, but His Excellency couldn’t just leave the stadium, because the Mets were playing the Pirates, and this was the Pirates team with Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell and Dock Ellis (who would pitch a no-hitter a month later while stoned out of his mind), and anyway the Mets were coming off their shocking championship the year before, so who would leave on account of a little downpour? 

We waited in the school auditorium as our parents and grandparents and disgruntled brothers and sisters rustled in the searing heat of the church. It was a roaring hot day and someone in the choir fainted. My dad said later he could hear a hole exactly the size of an alto in the choir’s subsequent performance, but we think he was teasing us. Finally the bishop arrived, having left the game in a huff when the Mets made their fourth error of the day, and the ceremony started.

Our older brothers and sisters, who had already been Confirmed and were pretty smug about it and claimed there were secret rituals and code words they could never reveal to us on pain of death, had filled us with stories of the bishop slapping kids in the face as part of the ancient Sacrament, and while none of us could figure out why exactly a slap figured in a ceremony that seemed to be about welcoming new members to the army, we were suitably forewarned, and there was a lot of loose talk about slapping the bishop back, and ducking his hand, and bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali, or catching his hand as it came hurtling toward your face and leaning in companionably and whispering not this time, big fella, and remarks like that, mostly from the boys, although two of the girls, I remember, were coldly intent on slapping anyone who slapped them, and one girl said she would accept the first blow and turn her other cheek for a second slap, but we thought she was just trying to impress Sister Marie."

Catch the Fire

Pentecost by El Greco 

Hello, summer!

It's official: I'm on summer vacation. I have had to pinch myself to be sure.

Let's revise that: I HAVE BEEN on summer vacation since Tuesday, that is, after I posted the grades online.

Since the final exam, I had dithered, deliberated, over the grades I was going to assign, enduring repeated flashbacks of each student's quality of work, extents in efforts, time spent at the easel, pursued major, even individual temperament. I had lost sleep over the consequences of my "judgement". I consulted colleagues, even KDM on my criteria; I prayed for guidance and truthfulness.
In short, I took it seriously and suffered indecisions.

My deliberations and agonies paid off.

On the day the grades were due, having consumed my accustomed amount of a.m. coffee, I sat down by the computer, logged on the grade page, found the names, typed the grades in, submitted all, logged out, and never looked back.

I have no qualm for wanting to evict these names from my mind for a while. I've cared and fussed over them for sixteen weeks. I've alternately felt affection and contempt for them, justified and rebuked my conflicting emotions throughout; I've managed to come out wanting to be just fair and true (because I'm sorta under the yoke, and I don't mean just the ethics, you know?)...

Now I just want the leaf turned over and move on.

I commenced my release by making this painting -

May Flowers, oil on canvas,  8"x10" 

for my parish carnival which is set for this weekend. Being a true last-minuter, I started and finished it the day before yesterday, after three tumultuous (yes it's that serious) previous starts (painting has gotten painful in these parts, even a tiny and utilitarian one like this, but let me not digress). To speed up drying, I used extra dryer in the paint. Still, it will need a "wet paint" card beside it on the silent auction table.

Then, yesterday, KDM, the families of his two sons, and I went to Crystal Bridges, to see the blockbuster Norman Rockwell exhibition that I had wanted so badly to see.

And we all had a ball, from KDM down to the 22 month-old. The size and diversity of the crowds, many gray-haired and in wheelchair, were like nothing I'd seen in all of my museum goings. Norman Rockwell have united the snobs and commoners alike in art. The museum, founded by members associated with a mega-business known for efficiency and organization, looked even a bit overwhelmed and disheveled. Nobody seemed to mind it, though. And I was all too happy to see so many flocking to an art house, and none needed my instruction or grading.

Too bad viewers weren't allowed to photograph either the works or the throng. But neither Norman Rockwell needs introduction nor does his work lack reproduced images. Still, I want to share this exhibition header from CB's website:

As I slowly recollect my story-telling, expressive consciousness, you may expect a little less desolation around this place.