Gammell

Mother Hubbard

Two avocados, three cans of crushed canned tomatoes, and a down comforter biding it's time at a dry cleaners down the street that I can't afford to pick up:

I introduce you to to my kitchen and the general state of affairs over here.

Perhaps I should not send my goods to a dry cleaner?

Many times my dog has pissed on a comforter and many times I have tried to handle these incidents in an economical way.

The last time I tried this, my washing machine broke and I thought soaking the comforter in my bathtub would make sense, until I discovered that pulling a liquid-soaked comforter from the tub and depositing it into a dryer was the equivalent of pulling a small dead body from my tub and depositing it into the dryer, and these things just don't work and it's embarrassing to call anyone for help unless it's the guy living five floors down that has a crush on you and ends up marrying you.


"You Love Me Like a Pet I Once Abandoned at my Parents' Home While I Went and did Something for Myself for a Long Time."  48x60

"You Love Me Like a Pet I Once Abandoned at my Parents' Home While I Went and did Something for Myself for a Long Time."

48x60


So, to recap, I only send my shit to the dry cleaner to save the condo complex from flooding and have not yet picked up said comforter because I can't quite pay for it yet, not because I am a diva. 

When I become a diva, trust me, I will not be wasting those power-plays on an IKEA comforter.

I nearly ran away from home in my late teens. I had dropped out of college, after entering college early. Either way, it was all too soon for me.

I did NOT end up running away, thanks to a girlfriend, her sewing scissors, a small quilt, and a story for another time. Instead, I cut all the hair from my head and made a vow to paint more, paint better, paint harder. 

Many years of my mothers tear's began the next morning when she woke to my chopped head and sent me off to a salon where I sat defiantly under shears and judgement.

So, fifteen years later, to find myself bent over the sink while my husband shaves the left side of my head as we discuss our taxes and sensitive toothpaste takes a little edge off the present banal.

I never thought I'd be in such a safe place.

All of it is boring, this adult bullshit.

We vacillate between comfort and breathing heavily in small spaces. Often that small space is our own space we pay too much rent for.

I paint full time but it hangs by a small string and I will probably head back to a part time job in a moments notice.

I'm pretty sure that moments notice is sleeping in the unopened cereal box behind the opened cereal box I am plowing through every morning.

......which brings us back to a couple avocados and a stockpile of potential spaghetti sauce.

For those of us tired, waking to empty Keurig filters, cursing the peanut butter jar, late for work, reaching for more:

I thought I'd be able to buy that really really good food for my dogs by now and I can't, so I hear you.

Perhaps the greatest discipline is to keep the discipline.

I'll do it, if you do it.

Glimpse of Glimmer

Caught in the Most Delicate of Rockfalls - 30x30  From Muscle Memory  Showing at Hall | Spassov Gallery   319 3rd Ave S  Seattle, Wa 98104  August 7-31, 2014.

Caught in the Most Delicate of Rockfalls - 30x30

From Muscle Memory

Showing at Hall | Spassov Gallery 

319 3rd Ave S

Seattle, Wa 98104

August 7-31, 2014.

The night before an opening can consist of many things and I would do well not to speak for other artists,

but,

my case history boils down to five simple ingredients:

Train travel (one of our last remaining icons of simple visitation). 

Nerves (every last one of them is gasping for attention). 

Wine (it's so pretty, it tastes so good, and, well, all those nerves....).

Pedicures (what's the point of new shoes if your feet look like tarantulas).

Gratitude (I would buy train tickets and heavy bottles of Barbera and pedicures for all my loving supporters if I could).

Painting is a solitary sport.  The majority of my life is spent in this solitude. It gets loud when one of my dogs barks. It gets really loud when I curse my frustrations. The silence of concentration can be deafening at times.

Deadlines overlap and intermingle, and as a working artist I often lose track of the day of the week. This can be extremely disorienting in the same vein that it is liberating.

Opening night is tomorrow.

I was standing on a street corner with a bag full of sesame snaps debating iced coffee ratios with an old friend I ran into while my clock ticked off that I would NOT make my train on time if I didn't walk away and get my shit together in the next six minutes.

His direct quote was: 

"You are going to miss your train if you don't leave in the next six minutes."

I think I may have been stalling. By accident? Subconscious?

I have been painting professionally for 14 years. The nerves do not subside. I think they grow, like fingernails, like fucking mold. 

It's embarrassing to be a human.

It's awkward to be open and for sale.

It's awesome to recognize that and DO IT ANYWAY.

It's important to wear great shoes and say Thank You.

It's an honor to know that y'all will be there, in body or in spirit, and I curtsy to that.

Merci.