Gwen Meharg: Artist Blog

Today, as I sat down to FINALLY complete the blog I began May 8th, 2020. You remember early May? When streets and restaurants and stores and stadiums and schools were still crowded? Back when, unbeknownst to most of us, CV19 was slithering around the planet like a Klingon battleship in stealth mode? We still had delusions of being by-passing the devastation. (Grammie Hannan’s stories of the Spanish Influenza kept echoing in my head. We were not blindsided, but we still had hoped it would not be a repeat of 100 years prior.) Back before we knew what we know now?

Yeah, me neither.

When quarantine set in, I froze up, afraid that sharing the SOMETIMES technique of thinking would seem frivolous.

Memorial Day arrives and George Floyd is murdered while bystanders recorded the murder and tried to appeal to the policemen’s humanity. With everyone in quarantine, people saw the murder, right there, right in front of our eyes in our living rooms, in our bedrooms, in our bathrooms, in our kitchens. Over and over we saw George Floyd die.

Why did his death affect the world unlike so many prior killings by the police? If it had not been for the world quarantined, I do not think it would have been any different. I watched as a conservative woman on a youtube video turned her thinking 180 degrees during the recording. She went from an ALL LIVES MATTER supporter to OMG BLACK LIVES DO MATTER advocate. Her eyes were opened and she was pissed. I have no doubt that this particular white lady is not going to let go of this bone. She wants to make up for lost time and decades of ignorance.

Me, too.
I want to make up for years of ignorance followed by impotent intentions.

SO, Gwen, WHY this frivolous message when the world is in disarray?

I am glad you asked. Because as I sit with current events: marches, protests, removal of statues, and a sharp uptick in CV19 hospitalizations, I see the original intent of SOMETIMES does indeed still hold relevance.
SOMETIMES is still a helpful concept.

Up until 1:30 a.m. working on the COMPUTER.

are you familiar with @therealsambennett ?

She teaches SOMETIMES as a way to flip the script.
You are a terrible mother!
Sometimes.
You are a fabulous mother!
Sometimes.

It has REALLY helped me with negative self talk and thought distortions.

The last letters are flipped to remind me of the power of moderating an absolute. HOW MANY of those letters

On Oct 14, 2020, at 2:58 PM, Gwen Meharg <gwen@gwenmeharg.com> wrote:

Tears in every room of the house. I am bawling in my studio. Jubilee is crying in her room. David is teary-eyed at his computer in an important zoom meeting. The dog did NOT eat J’s homework, I ATE IT!

No, not exactly, but I might as well. In my lame effort to connect, I went in to visit with her during her lunch break. I sat down on her bed and the 49-pound puppy jumped halfway up. To protect her school Chromebook, I closed it. When I did, she lost all of her work for the day. During the LAST WEEK OF the six weeks grading cycle.
​
She had finished the entire assignments for the day and had even worked ahead some. FOUR HOURS of work (she started early today) and I closed her computer. I ate her homework.

I can’t fix it. Remember when they were little and we could “fix” most of the heartache?

She is a lot like me. She works so hard. She works hard but not quickly. I did not understand how slowly I read until my oldest was seven or eight and I realized that she read faster than I did. We each have a speed, a rhythm, that has nothing to do with intelligence. Jubilee and I are not speedy, particularly when doing “homework”. The best we can hope for is diligence and stubborn will power.

I ATE HER HOMEWORK and there is NOTHING I CAN DO TO HELP!

What I can do is help myself. I screwed up. But the real issue is WHAT am I going to do NOW? I want to play with the dogs. I would feel better but, honestly, my natural inclination is self-flagellation and wallowing in guilt and condemnation, self-chastisement, and formulating some sort of punishment. Something stupid and not helpful like not allowing myself to enjoy the dogs for the next week or two. It is not helpful. It doesn’t fix anything. It is an unhealthy mental game that I learned very early. Ruminate rather than sleep. Open the door to all the negative voices locked inside my head. Entertain the familial refrains and every unkind word with even just a hint of truth in it. Blow it out of proportion. Throw in a little self-hatred. You are a “bad mother,” “constant disappointment,” “unloveable,” “worthless,” “bad friend,” “ALWAYS mess things up,” “never speaking to you again,” “dead to me.”

During the global pandemic, I have been working hard on my mental wellbeing. Today, I am going to work diligently to NOT do those things which have been my go-to for so very long. Thanks to my counselor, Dr. O, my healthy eating Noom app, The Real Samantha Bennett, and you, I am choosing to navigate a different path.

I have some new tools. I am thankful for you for having CHOSEN to hang with me. I struggle to believe anyone takes an interest in my art life. THANK YOU!

Dr.O and Noom for the DBT (Dialectic Behavior Therapy) and learning to recognize thought distortions and incorporating a little radical acceptance.
And Samantha Bennett for the magic of sometimes.
​

Sometimes I AM a bad mother. More often I am more inadequate than bad, but SOMETIMES I am a bad mother (daughter, sister, wife, friend, acquaintance.) Sometimes I am a good mother (daughter, sister, wife, friend, acquaintance.) (Did you know acquaintance had a C in it? I am incredulous!)

Sometimes I am a disappointment. A disappointment to others. A disappointment to myself.
Sometimes I am a blessing.

Sometimes others do not love me.
Sometimes I am loved.

Sometimes I am worthless. Sometimes I am useless.
Sometimes I contribute.

Sometimes I mess things up.
Sometimes I make things better.
​

Sometimes some choose not to speak to me. Sometimes my life is less for their choice and sometimes it is better.
Sometimes kinder, less judgmental people choose to speak to me.

Sometimes another chooses to kill me in their heart of hearts.
ALL the time, that is their loss.

ALWAYS IT IS THEIR LOSS.

I deserve better.
YOU deserve better.
WE DESERVE BETTER!

She deserves better, but she has me. Sometimes that weighs heavy on her- like when I eat her homework. Sometimes, as annoying as I am, she knows she is loved.

Computer-Guru husband was not able to get her work back. I can’t help her. I think I am finished crying. Oops, not yet. I guess I will just keep going. Do the next thing with the energy and determination that I can muster today. Disappointing my children is one of the most painful things that a parent deals with. In disappointing our children, we disappoint ourselves. All those early dreams of being “better parents” than our parents. All those dreams of loving and being loved by the most important humans in our lives.

In the midst of a global pandemic, during a lunch break, I made things worse. My prayer is that J will forgive me. She is a kind, gentle soul and I think she will. My prayer is that I will forgive myself. I am kind and gentle, SOMETIMES.

If you want something you have seen today, MOST of these are available for whatever you want to donate to EJI. My goal is to raise $6000 for EJI and 100% above shipping ($10) goes to EJI (Equal Justice Initiative.) If you just want to pay for shipping, that is fine, too. I am trying to get the taste of chewed up homework out of my mouth and if I can make your day better, maybe that will help.

In all sincerity, thank you. Gwen​

PS It has been a couple of hours and the tears are still just below the surface. J is working diligently recreating her work. I can’t believe the system the school uses does not save work in progress. Will I be ruminating tonight? Probably a little, but I have a plan. I have music and meditations ready to go. Maybe do some tapping. Definitely doing some journaling. I want to do better, to be better. And whatever I end up doing, it will be all I can do. The best I can where I am today. I still can’t fix anything, but maybe I can model forgiving myself. Maybe that is something.

PPS If you are wondering why the Sometimes are different sizes, I don’t know.

​

Is still a rose.
Juneteenth 2020

A rose by any other name …

Is still a rose

Names are important.

So many important names rush at us daily, sometimes hourly.
How do we remember, how do we honor the names?

The names of those lost.
The names of those left behind?

A protester in DC holds up a photo of her precious son whose killing by the police never made the news. No one chants his name. Momma, with her bullhorn and her son’s photograph invites, begs, DEMANDS that people say his name.

For four minutes I repeated his name with her. Four minutes, less than half the time that officer knelt on George Floyd’s neck. I stayed with this mom for four minutes. Less than a month later I can not remember her son’s name.

Names are important.

His name is gone. Her plea is not. She demands we remember all the sons and daughters.

I keep thinking about the hundreds, thousands of moms. Moms whose children were lost without headlines, vigils, or global protests. Moms who do not hear the names of their lost children chanted in the streets. We will never know all the names or faces or stories. We will never know all the broken hearts. But we can learn some names and touch some hearts.

Fifty is the number of Jubilee.
Fifty represents freedom and restitution.
Over the next couple of weeks I will finish fifty portraits.
Fifty portraits not of specific faces, nor specific names.

Portraits of roses.

Will you help me? Roses to acknowledge those who also deserved global protest and recognition. I need your help in getting these portraits to the families. Rose Portraits to reflect individual stories. As of Juneteenth I am 31 “Rose Portraits” and almost 60 hours into the project.

Peter (my youngest son) is helping me figure out (and by that I mean Peter is figuring out) how to share these drawings so that they can be downloaded. Soon they will be available as prints for cost plus your donation to a non-profit supporting social justice for POC. We are using the “honor system.”

IDEAS FOR SHARING ROSES:

-Send a kind message to families from your community who are suffering loss. If you don’t know anyone from your area, google it. If you are too old to google, ask a young one to do it for you.
-You could email one of these rose images to someone or print them off.

-What do you say? The bible says love your neighbors as yourself. What would you want to hear? Start by remembering their loved one. Sometimes, that is enough.
“You don’t know me, but I was remembering your son/daughter today and want tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
-If you print off the rose and color it, you can share why you chose the rose and why you chose that color. Maybe you read where they graduated and use their school’s colors or the colors of their favorite sports team. Be human.
-If you have children, invite them to participate by asking them to color a rose for them as a way to show kindness and while you are coloring, share stories about the person who died or their family left behind. Sometimes it is hard to distinguish between TV shows and real life. Children, tweens and teens in particular, often feel helpless because they did not do anything but there is a corporate guilt that is very real. By taking the time to do their best work for another, they are learning how to be pro-active.
-If you have a Sunday School class or women’s group that meets, spend one day learning together and coloring. Coloring together over Zoom or Skype can actually be fun. Listen to music or a book or podcast that addresses racial/social justice.
-Send a “bouquet” to a family.

-Don’t have a printer? Walgreens and the FedEx stores have printers. Ask them to print on cardstock; it’s is more fun to work with than regular weight paper.
-Print them off and color them while listening to a book or podcast about how to be ANTI-racist.
-Color them with your children while you listen to stories/books told from other life experiences. (Faith Ringold has authored some MARVELOUS books. Wouldn’t it be awesome to read Tar Beach and color individual petals in traditional quilt patterns. (I just had this thought and it sounds SO FUN!)
-Grandparents can share stories about how things were when they were younger and what they are learning today. (The kids will be AMAZED at how ignorant they were! That can lead to lively discussions.)
-Sit at your kitchen table and color them with your children and share stories about how we can be better human beings
-Think of way better ideas than me and do them. Share them if you get a hankering.

To “buy” an original drawing show me that you have donated to a non-profit supporting racial justice. (Or you gave money to a friend who is in need during this horrendous season of promise for a better day.) Donate what you can. Donate what seems fair given your current circumstances. Each drawing takes a couple of hours to complete.

If “donate what you can” is too vague, here is an example:

$75 donation for an original drawing and $100 donation for a watercolor painting.

These are just numbers I made up while I was typing. Someone always insists I put a price on things. Follow your heart and make a difference.

I have including a few of the first drawings throughout the email. I will be posting the rest over the next few weeks on my blog (http://www.blog.gwenmeharg.com/ ) and on Facebook at Gwen Meharg Art (https://www.facebook.com/gwenmehargart/ ) or on Instagram at Gwen Meharg (https://www.instagram.com/gwenmeharg/?hl=en )

May freedom and beauty reign in your hearts and our nation.
May we be a more beautiful land a year from now.
May freedom and justice for all, finally and actually mean ALL.

XOXOX, Gwen

PS
Artist and friend, Laura Hunt started the Equality Portrait Project where, as an expression of solidarity, she is painting positive portraits of black men and women who have wrongfully died in custody of the police. She has invited others to join in this work of affirming the HUMANITY of black and brown lives. Laura’s Instagram showcasing these brilliant portraits is LauraHunt_Septart (SeptemberArt Studio) Here is the link to Laura’s portrait of Atatiana Jefferson who was killed here in Fort Worth: https://www.instagram.com/p/CBOEPKDHLxM/ I wanted to join Laura in this project, but portraits of people are hit and miss for me. (They are all hit right out of the ballpark for Laura!) The roses are my way to participate.

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Greetings! How are you doing? How is the world treating you? How is your heart? The times, they are a-changing! Last week I had a video call with a psychiatrist and I received some diagnoses that were not surprising, but still rattled my cage. Last summer, driving home listening to NPR, I started figuring things out, but still- hearing it from the proverbial horse’s mouth (there is nothing horse-like about my doc) took some processing. While I was processing (depression, ADD, and PTSD)

 THE PUPPY ATE MY COMPUTER GLASSES!

Instantly. NEW PERSPECTIVE! I could no longer see the computer or what I was painting!
I still have driving glasses that have distance, so I can still drive. There is no safe place to drive to but I COULD drive.The painting I began during distance socializing is five feet tall and nine feet wide. I love it!But I can’t see it now. To paint I stand with my nose nine inches from the canvas that is stapled to the wall. I a focus radius of about 24 inches. Beyond that, things begins to blur. Crazy new perspective.(link to fb live of me starting this painting.)The process I am using in the Marking Time series is a mix of working very close and then stepping back and seeing how the minuscule creates the whole. I am adjusting. The last twelve hours of painting have been sans glasses. I am painting beyond the clarity of my vision and trusting the process. Trusting that even though I can not clearly see what I am doing, I am doing it. Trusting my experience, instinct, muscle memory, and hoping for the best. Every sixty to ninety minutes I take a glasses break. What is a glasses break? I locate my driving glasses, gird up my loins, and turn to SEE what it is I have done. So far, so good.

  Typing this is physically painful. Thankfully I have an IKEA table that goes up and down with a crank. (OKAY, PETER! I hear you making “old crank” jokes, not funny. Actually, though I loath to admit it, they are funny.) The adjustable table/desk is so much better than if it did not adjust. I am thankful. The table cranks up high enough so I don’t have to bend over so far and that helps, and I am only a little dizzy. Monday I pick up a new computer script from the optometrist and will get Forrest to help me order some single vision glasses online. I paint wearing my computer glasses. I have given up on being able to see to read, so I just hold the book really close to my face. 

Does this story seem familiar? It is kinda funny. It is also kinda sad. It is life!
Things were rocking along and then there is a bump. We can’t know what is ahead. We make adjustments and do what we can do. Some of it is painful. Some of it we just workaround. We all are realizing how much we depend on each other.
(Yes, I just compared SARS-Corona19 to a giant puppy eating the world’s glasses. It is more than that, but sometimes you just gotta compartmentalize the size of what is happening to be able to process.)What is a person to do?KEEP. GOING. (time-lapse video of me working on the new painting)I am continuing the Marking Time series that I began on December 31, 2018. It had been a rough season. My dad accidentally called me in October of 2018. I was able to tell him I loved him before he hung up on me. Four days later he died. Over the next few months, I would discover that he had legally disinherited me. (That is quite a tale, but not here, not yet.) It was hard. Our relationship had cycled through ups and downs since I was twenty and bought my own wedding dress. (Another bizarre story.) He would punish me for months/years at a time by not speaking to me, then, magically, everything would be fine. We never spoke of the estrangements, why they happened, or why they ended. Looking back I see that when he was angry with my sister, he would make up with me. There seemed to be a one or the other thing going on. He did not seem capable of loving us both at the same time.

I hoped that was what was happening when he accidentally called, that we would begin again.
https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/inhabitation-72-x-48-acrylic-on-canvas

I hoped that was what was happening four days later when I saw his number on my cell phone. It was his wife was calling me to gently tell me he had died. I was stunned. I did not know what to say or even how to respond. I thanked Sharon for loving my father.

https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/forgiven-50-x-48-acrlyic-on-canvas
No more hoping there would be another chance to start over and pretend the estrangement did not happen. No more phone calls hoping he would answer. No more letters hoping he would hear my heart. As hard as it was, it was freeing.
https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/like-the-flame

Over night my inner critic, who sounded suspiciously like my parents, stopped. For as long as I can remember, falling asleep has been traumatic. Cruel, critical thoughts would spiral around in my brain: You are a horrible daughter. You are a horrible sister. You are a horrible wife. You are a horrible mother. You are a horrible friend. You are a failure. Your children hate you. No one loves you and no one ever will… Fun stuff. The night my father died, the inner critic stopped screeching at me at night.

https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/i-have-better-things-to-do-with-my-heart-6-x-4-feet-acrylic-on-canvas

The next summer was when I learned via NPR that ADD looks different in women and girls and is usually diagnosed first as depression and anxiety. Oh, my, goodness. There is an inattentive ADD that is not hyperactive. It fit me and a few of my children. Wowzers! DING DING DING!!!! Winner winner chicken dinner. I drove home and started studying. New perspective.

https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/like-the-leaf-48-x-48-acrylic-on-canvas

https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/like-the-sky-48-x-48-acrylic-on-canvas

Apparently, I had developed coping skills. Skills that worked pretty well until they did not. I did well in school. I have a BBA and an MBA in computers and statistics. The hardest part of school for me was reading. I am a S L O O O O W reader. It takes me FOREVER. The psychiatrist said, “Oh, the slow reading is the ADD.” I almost cried. A weight lift from my shoulders. Angels began to sing. LAAALAALAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

It is so much easier working with the known. And knowing that my brain works differently, not wrong – different – is empowering. I am not an abject failure. My greatest weakness is my super power. When I heard other artists speak of being tired after painting for four hours, of losing concentration, I would bite my lip. SHOOT! I am just warming up after four hours. Give me a 16 hour painting day and I am on cloud nine. (I really should have suspected something earlier.)

https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/new-painting

Now I understand why some parts of the art business have defeated me. I am hoping that armed with the knowledge of how mmy brain works, I will be able to develop ways to work around the ‘windsock spinning in the gale” feelings in my brain when confronted with the business side of being an artist.I am more prolific than productive. I make stuff. It is what I do and who I am. I am a maker. I am trying to wrap my precious ADD brain around the idea of MAKING a business. (I really need help, but until I find that person to help me, I am feeling semi confident that I can finally make progress on my own by harnessing my ADD super-power.) Just knowing that these years of struggle are not a direct result of character failure is such a relief. I always thought IF I tried harder, if I blah, blah, blah. And I have spent years punishing myself for NOT achieving. When you ___________ then you can have fun. WELL, ____________ was NEVER going to happen. Now I now why!https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/all/products/golden-hour-60-x-60-acrylic-on-canvas

A new perspective.

Isolating at home has been very good for me. I am no longer beating myself up for lack of productivity. I am being kind to myself. I am learning to befriend myself. I took a week off to just be and it has been healing.

I am learning to embrace SOMETIMES. Samantha Bennett, author of “Get It Done,” teaches the art of SOMETIMES. You are a horrible daughter. SOMETIMES. You are a horrible wife. SOMETIMES. You are a horrible mother. SOMETIMES. You are loving. Sometimes. You are kind. Sometimes. You are AWESOME! Sometimes.https://www.instagram.com/p/B_7rwJynnWD/

ADD probably explains my buckshot writing and conversation style. We ALL should have known. It also helps me understand my art. (And comments by other artists, “HOW do you do that? It would drive me crazy.”)The Marking Time series is my attempt to encourage myself and the world to keep going. My exploration of the beauty of doing the ordinary stuff day over and over and over. My celebration of ordinary in a world that expects the extraordinary.Yes, some of our essential workers are indeed extraordinary, the doctors, nurses, and scientists. But we are learning how essential the ordinary is. The janitors. The UPS/ Fedex/ USPS carriers. The clerks. The stockers. The delivery people. The fast food worker. The farmer and farmhand. The truck driver. The ticket taker. The migrant. All the INVISIBLE PEOPLE. All the minimum wage workers that the world can’t function without.The ordinary, it turns out, is not so ordinary after all.This pandemic has given us the opportunity to step in close and see in detail the value of the small and the ordinary. All those tiny marks are the foundation of the whole.The pandemic has given us a chance to step back and see the big picture. The beauty of insignificant marks coming together. The marks that are not perfect, but are essential.My perspective is changing. I am a fixer. I can’t fix this pandemic. I am learning to encourage. I can encourage (myself and) others to keep going. To search for the beauty in the mundane. Maybe you are changing diapers and wiping bottoms. Maybe you are delivering packages. Maybe you are cleaning and disinfecting. Maybe you calling friends. Maybe you are listening to birds sing. Maybe you are praying for the rest of us.

I hope you are asking new questions during this season of distant socializing. I hope you and yours are safe. I hope that you are treating yourself with the kindness and compassion you offer to strangers. I hope that my super-power brings you joy. I hope my transparency sets you free to embrace whatever your super-power might be. There is beauty in what you do. There is beauty in who you are. Step back and see how all the marks you make, next to the marks she makes, and all the marks he makes creates extraordinary beauty. Please, celebrate your mark. Thank you for bringing your heart and gifts to the world. You are extraordinary. Peace out, Gwen

PS

These two roses were picked in December 2019 and photographed in January 2020. Depending on how you look at them they were very late, or very early. I think they were right on time. And look at the surprise center of this rose. Yeah, it is not supposed to be THAT way, but isn’t it glorious!

Be glorious.

Thus racism and white supremacy.
In Two Stories

This was originally published as Thus The Patriarchy. Sort of. I THOUGHT it was published, but I never hit send. I found quite a few unpublished blogs that I had thought were published so I am publishing them all at once. Someone wiser would space them out so as to not have to write new ones. I re-read the unpublished blogs and I liked them. THIS one seems to me to apply to more than a few different categories of entrenched systemic power institutions. THUS two short stories.

In college, my Indian friend, Nina, told me a story she heard as a child.

There was a washerman whose job it was to clean the seats of the public transportation buses.  He was given a rag and a bucket of soapy water.  He prided himself in the efficiency and care he took carefully scrubbing each and every seat.

The washerman began with the seats behind the driver at the front of the bus and diligently worked his way to the back of the bus washing each and every seat.  Then from the back, he made his way forward until he completed the seat by the front door.

Since he had only one rag and one bucket of water that is what he used to complete the first bus.  And the second.  And the third.  And so on until the fleet had been scrubbed.

When he was finished cleaning the buses they were dirtier than when he began.  The supervisor asked the washerman why he had not cleaned the buses because the inspection indicated that the buses were indeed filthy.

“The buses are clean for I cleaned them,” answered an indignant washerman.

The washerman believed the act of cleaning made them clean.  The muddied water was irrelevant.
The washerman had washed.

Thus the racism and white supremacy.

Another story, a batch of delicious chocolate brownies.  Into this particular batch of brownies was added poop.  Not much.  Just a little.  No one could taste the poop.  Now, who wants a brownie?

Thus the racism and white supremacy.

Thus the Patriarchy.
In Two Stories

In college, my Indian friend, Nina, told me a story she heard as a child.

There was a washerman whose job it was to clean the seats of the public transportation buses.  He was given a rag and a bucket of soapy water.  He prided himself in the efficiency and care he took carefully scrubbing each and every seat.

The washerman began with the seats behind the driver at the front of the bus and diligently worked his way to the back of the bus washing each and every seat.  Then from the back, he made his way forward until he completed the seat by the front door.

Since he had only one rag and one bucket of water that is what he used to complete the first bus.  And the second.  And the third.  And so on until the fleet had been scrubbed.

When he was finished cleaning the buses they were dirtier than when he began.  The supervisor asked the washerman why he had not cleaned the buses because the inspection indicated that the buses were indeed filthy.

“The buses are clean for I cleaned them,” answered an indignant washerman.

The washerman believed the act of cleaning made them clean.  The muddied water was irrelevant.
The washerman had washed.

Thus the patriarchy.

Another story, a batch of delicious chocolate brownies.  Into this particular batch of brownies was added poop.  Not much.  Just a little.  No one could taste the poop.  Now, who wants a brownie?

Thus the patriarchy.

Happy 2019 and BEYOND!!!!!

Honestly, I have not a clue what Buzz is up to these days, but every time I see “2019” I hear Buzz’ voice in my head and he is as enthusiastic as ever.

How are you doing?

We are half way through January already and I have not completed the “courses” I signed up for on how to plan for 2019. While 2019 did not wait for me to be “ready”, I did not wait to implemented some new, for me, mindsets ideas. I found them when I googled Easy Breezy Life Hacks. 

Not really. It was Sergio Gomez and Dr. Yanina Gomez at Art NXT Level who brought the inspiration. On one of Sergio’s Breakfast with Sergio podcases in late December, he said something that struck a chord that resonated deep within my spirit. He spoke of not just setting goals, but taking some time to look at the barriers, the obstacles. So often we are encouraged to set lofty goals without giving due consideration to what might hinder our goals. Because the barriers are still there, we miss our goals, get frustrated and feel the perpetual failure.At least that is how it plays out for me.This year, I am looking at goals but also getting real with the obstacles.

Result, I have looked at and acknowledged hinderances and as a result have made some adjustments. One adjustment was ordering new LED lighting for the studio. Six lights for less than $50.The lighting still is not quite right, but it is more right than before. (Grammarly program wants me to use “rightER”!Awe, hell no!) Before, no matter where I stood or what time of day it was there were shadows on my canvases when I painted. The shadows are not gone, but they are less intense. The barrier is still there, but it is shoved off to the side. I am calling it a win. 

Emotionally I have shoved some barriers to the side. Yes, they are still in the way, but most days there is room to squeeze past. My father died October 8, 2018 and since his death I have discovered a great deal about my family of origin. It is disheartening. In my early 20s I declined illustrating a story my sister wrote and my dad swore to “get even” with me “if it is the last thing I do.” For 35 years I waited for that proverbial shoe to drop and drop it did. I was intentionally disinherited and not just me, but my children also. And the drama is not over.The final curtain has yet to fall. (See how I wove in the mention of a curtain with this photo of my painting behind the curtain?I am extra proud of this in case you were wondering.)

It goes deeper than that but the rest of the story can wait for another time.Until then here are some statistics to ponder.
One in ten adults over 60 is subjected to some form of elder abuse. Some abuse is easier to see than others. The abuse statistics jump to 50% for elders with mental limitations such as Alzheimer’s or dementia.

I typed some things and decided it could wait.In the typing I typed peewaddle as in, “that scared the peewaddle out of me.” Apparently peewaddle is not in the spellcheck.

Does spellcheck even exist any longer?I remember when it came along back in the 80s.Oh, how desperately my little department of General Dynamics wanted spellcheck.It cost $28 and our manager refused.

Oh, the hours wasted re-writing proposals and charts for want of spellcheck.

Children, back in the olden days, when my hair was the color of mahogany, we kept dictionaries in the right hand drawer of our desks (the left-handers kept them in the left-hand drawer.)Dictionaries helped but only partially.If one were a poor speller you dang sure were not going to find the misspelling while proofreading.Receive vs recieve, that I could handle, it had a little poem.(I before E except after C or when sounding like A as in Neighbor and Weigh.)But alas, there are exceptions even to the poem. Let’s just say that grannie Gwen had to rework a plethora of proposals and charts and anything else that involved stringing multiple letters together into purty words. Yes sirree, those were wild and wooly times.(It doesn’t much cotton to sirree, either.) 

Today we have a myriad of spellchecking iterations.Today we wrestle and wrangle with a new nemesis, autocorrect.

Communication is dad-blasted hard. (Now I am channeling Yosemite Sam with a little Foghorn Leghorn thrown in for good measure. Do Looney Tune and Toy Story characters inhabit your self-talk?)

WHOAH!Took a little side journey there, reeling it back in to the present.

I am excited about 2019 like I have not been excited about anything in a very long time. 2019 began with a solo art show at The Texas White House and it was AWESOME!This along with an exhibition at Urban Sugar and a dual stop road trip to Shreveport, Louisiana and Cleveland, Mississippi.Swim meets and decorators!

My 58^th birthday, happy birthday to me and all you luscious January babies! I have made new friends and reconnected with others. And last night I received the text all parent’s dream, an Atta-girl-Momma from an adult son. I fearlessly (yeah-right) looking at the blockades and making adjustmen ts as necessary to keep 2019 focused by eliminating all the things I COULD be doing and focusing on a single BIG thing. Oh, all the other things will happen, but the focus is narrowed.

WHICH REMINDS ME,

I have things to do.
And so do you.

THANK YOU for hanging out with me for a bit.
I hope to see more of you in 2019 
and HEAR how you are tackling goals and life living 
in the perfect storm that is 2019.

Peace out! Gwen Meharg

Once I Remembered

Typically, I spend an entire day (or TWO!) preparing an email/blog that sounds like I am riffing. And I am, but I am also sweating blood. My writing is akin to bed-head. It LOOKS happenstance, but a lot of product in involved achieving that unkempt look.  My creative process starts with a brain dump that is whittled down to something along the lines of organized chaos. Free range is a term my sister used to describe my children and my art.

Writing is easy.
Editing is hard.
Using commas properly is SO annoying!

Tidal Pool

Grammarly, a free writing tools, sends a weekly report which my competitive self finds both invigorating and infuriating! This week it congratulated me for a 22-week writing stretch. The report went on to inform me that:
You were more productive than 93% of Grammarly users.
(Nine thousand five hundred and fifty-two words.9,952 words! Dang, if I had known I was that close to ten thousand I would have tossed in another forty-eight words.)
You used more unique words than 97% of Grammarly users.
You were more accurate than 9% of Grammarly users.

TRANSLATION: LESS accurate than 91% of users. Maybe it was a good thing I lost the last draft.

(Have I ever mentioned that I majored in statistics in college?
I love exploring numbers! They try to worm their way into the art and, so far, I have successfully smacked them down.)

Articulate

October was exhausting. I was on track to finally get “it” done.
Rather, I was done in.

Late summer I began creating small paintings for my first official, organized, pre-planned, thought-out holiday sale. Over fifty small paintings matted and wrapped in clear sleeves. (Pat self on the back). Paintings complete, I was gearing up for the implementation phase when a heaping helping of life whacked me upside the head.

October first I delivered a triptych to Dallas for the annual Human Rights Initiative fundraiser. Human Rights Initiative is a legal organization of volunteer lawyers and folks who assist immigrants, at no charge, who have no other options. The annual fundraiser is key to a successful year. In 2017 they served almost 700 clients. HRI vets the artists, called Storytellers, and match them with clients. They meet three times after which the artist interprets the client’s story through art. A lovely and intense process. I love HRI.

The fourth rolled around and I received an accidental phone call from my estranged father. He asked for Lou but he got me. Before he hung up on me, I was able to holler, “I love you!” into the phone several times. I am certain he heard two of those declarations. I did a happy dance. My husband looked at me and cried. It was good to hear my father’s voice. It felt like a win.

Dream

Chugga chugga choo choo!I was chugging along doing life, making art and implementing plans for the holiday sale. Chugga chugga choo choooooooo! There was even an animal blessing at church and Wesley mostly behaved.

THEN – toot toot! screeeeeeeeeech– sidetrack. (I relate to the children’s book, The Little Engine That Could. It comes up OFTEN in my writing.) October the eighth my father had a heart attack and he died.

Ruminations

The entire month was like that-all highs and lows- no middle ground.

I was surprised by the impact of my father’s death, I felt derailed. And I felt free like there were daisies in my
– O G!!!! TOOTLE!

A Little Golden Book about the little engine who couldn’t stay on the rails. Baby trains must learn one rule, “Stay on the RAILS no matter what!” O M G!!!!! And now The Little Red Caboose song is swirling around inside my head. You know The Little Red Caboose, right? He wanted to be popular LIKE the big engine, but he wasn’t the big engine and never would be an engine. The Little Red Caboose had an inferiority complex UNTIL one day… he saved the day. His popularity came from being who he was created to be.

(Note to self, re-read train books. Take particular notice of where you have strayed from the rails, when you stayed on the rails, and when you might ought to have gotten off.)

Muse

Good LORD!The things one learns when writing.

A life philosophy pieced together from Little Golden Book train books?WOW! My Maine granddaddy, Herbert Herrick Hannan Sr., worked for the railroads. Maybe that is why we had train books? For educated people, six degrees between my parents, we had relatively few books in the house. But we had these three. And of course, I bought them for my children.

DANG! Train metaphors are in my bones.

Life is full.
Full of ups and downs and starts and screeching stops.
That is just how life is.

Haven

Let’s get BACK ON TRACK!

I switched tracks late last summer and started prepping for a small paintings holiday sale.

Why? Because over the years my work larger and larger. Large doesn’t suit everyone. Since one size does not fit all I decided it would be egalitarian to give itty bitty a go. I floated these little jewels on 8” square matboard, in crystal clear sleeves, ready to frame – or not. Prices are $75 and $125. (Today I added some unmated watercolors for $50.)

Hope

Since I am four weeks behind and Chrome quit working on my computer, I am skipping the exciting emails culminating in a big reveal. (WOW!) No pre-Black Friday hoopla. (BOO?) No tension building emails and whatnot. (THANK GOD!)

I intend to run some Facebook ads. (We will see-snort.)

And by refusing to play the marketing games, I just might lose. (Tooooooooooooot! Toot.Too bad.)
And yet I already feel like I won!
The family will be arriving soon and as soon as I hit send, my focus shifts to family and the friends they bring along with them. I don’t EVEN want to think about marketing. (Last Thanksgiving I almost brought capitalism to its knees by not shopping the Friday after Thanksgiving! At least that is why I TELL myself then I feel warm and smug.)

Refuge

Is it okay with you if I just skip the plan and tell you about the holiday mini-paintings? I have fifty + new paintings for the Holiday Sale. MAYBE (if I get them photographed) a few 22 x 30” experimental paintings for $500 and some unmated watercolors for $50. One size doesn’t fit all, but hopefully, there will be something for everyone who is looking.

Here is the link for the Holiday Sale.
I hope you find something you will enjoy.
Something for yourself, a loved one, or a client.

Sunshine and Roses

Please, tell three friends about the sale. (OOOH LOOK! Slipped in a little bit of marketing science. I read that if I ask you to think of two friends to share my art with you will be able to think of two friends who like art. WIN/WIN! I would appreciate your help and consideration. If you think of four friends – the more the merrier!)

I tried to take photos of the frost on the wildflowers but I left my phone in the car overnight and it froze. Touchscreen stopped working. No frosty photos. You will have to settle for mini-paintings.

I will write again before Christmas and I will let you know how the sale is going.

Greater Angels

Stay warm. Gird yourself for the wild ride that is the holiday season in the States. Celebrate the highs. Understand that the lows are part of everyone’s life (if not social media feeds.)Disappointments don’t pause for the holidays. Most of us are just doing the best we can.  SOME people are mean and their meanness is not about you.

BE FREE! Gwen

Foundations

ALMOST FORGOT! I am holding a SMALL ORIGINAL PAINTING GIVEAWAY for new subscribers to my email blog.    IF YOU ARE INTERESTED in being included in the drawing sign up for the email at www..GwenMeharg.com.
I am going to print off names and add them to my black Stetson for a drawing on Saturday, December 16, 2018. Free shipping to USA addresses.

PPS. I just thought of this. https://gwenmeharg.com/collections/small-works-for-2018/products/once-i-remembered IF your friends subscribe, I will add your name again, but you have to tell me who they are so I will know to add your name when they sign up.

OMG! 
At 4:35 this afternoon the screen on the landline phone flashed,
“Grandpa Ben.”
Again!

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
MAYBE the misdial last Thursday and my, “I love you!” caused my Daddy to remember that he loves me and he is calling to do our dance of denial and pretend everything is fine.

Last Thursday I wondered if the call was to tell me he was dead.
Turned out it was an accident.  A wrong number.
My daddy called me on accident
and even though he refused to talk to me,
it was so good to hear his voice.
I told I love him, twice, before he hung up on me.

It felt complete.  It felt like the last time I would hear his voice.  The last time he would hear mine.  He had refused to answer my calls or letters ever since my sister called him about her son moving in with my family.

I am thankful for that “wrong number.”

It was not my father on the phone, the voice was his womanfriend.
She told me they were in San Marcos.   San Marcos is where I grew up.

My father and his friend have traveled to San Marcos several times a year for the past twenty years.  NONE of those times did they let me know so I could make any arrangements to see them.  This was the first time they had ever  informed me that they were in Texas.

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
“OH! They heard my, ‘I love you!”
They are going to visit after these twenty long years.

Once there was a ceremony at Texas State honoring my dad.  My dad told me about it and we discussed my family attending.  He had not met my youngest two children.  He promised to call with the date.  It was extra exciting because my second son, Josiah, was in school at Texas State that year.   Waiting for the phone call, I forgot about it.   I did not realize we missed the ceremony until my nephew told me about it after he moved in with us.  He remembered asking his mom where we were.  She told him we were busy.  He remembered asking where Josiah, who was in school at Texas State, was and she told him Josiah was also too busy to attend.

I wondered if my dad did not want us there or if my sister was supposed to invite us and she did not.  I wonder what she told our father about why we were not there.

In her mind we were in a competition as she believed that our parents “loved me” best.  It became her life’s ambition to be loved more than me.   I did not get to ask him because by the time I found out my sister had told our father about her son living with us and my father cut off all contact.

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
They are in San Marcos.
But, my father’s womanfriend does not tell me they are coming to visit.
She tells me that my father is dead.
He had a heart attack at the Texas State function and died when they removed life support in the hospital.

The womanfriend tells me that my sister is in charge of cremating him and she said they would spread his ashes in Maine.   She did not say when that would be.  It had only been an hour when she called.

Later I thought I would like some of those ashes so that my family and I can have a ceremony.  I did not think of that, to ask, when I was on the phone.
I was a little numb.  Last Thursday I wondered if he were dead.
Today it did not enter my thought.

I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.
One of the last things my sister screamed at me all those years ago was that she would not tell me when either of our parents died.
Yes, I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.

I told my father’s womanfriend that I was sorry for her loss.
She said thank you.

No mention of the wrong number four days ago.
No mention of how moved (or unmoved) he was by my declarations of love.  No mention of the years of shunning me.
Just, thank you.
Good-bye.  We hung up.

No drama.  Just the facts.
It was very appropriate.

My father, who I have not seen in over twenty years is dead.
I did not finish the letter telling him how good it was to hear his voice.
BUT
– damn it! –
I got to tell him I love him.
I know he heard me.
I heard his voice
and I spoke my truth before he died.
I love you.
For that, I am thankful.

My father was a hard and cruel man.
In my early twenties I declined illustrating a story my sister wrote.
Because I would not illustrate the story my father swore,
“I will get even with you if it is the last thing I ever do.”

That promise haunts my husband.
David brought it up this afternoon.
He is concerned.

My father did not mellow with age.
Still, I loved him.  I choose to remember happier times.

I tried to convey my love without being sucked into his vortex of bitterness.
I usually failed.  When he cut me off completely after my nephew moved in, I missed him, but I did not miss the drama.

My father did a great many good while he walked this planet.  Sound scientific research and publication that continues to yield results in reservoir management.  He was a brilliant teacher and a life long learner.   He wrote well.  He helped students and random strangers.  He loved investing and the stock market.  He was kind to most of his nieces and nephews.  He adored my sister’s oldest child who was killed by her drunk boyfriend seven years ago.  

I used to tell myself that my father loved me in his own way.
He chose to live his final years treating me cruelly.
In spite of that, I loved him
and last Thursday I was able to tell him one last time.

I will NOT tell you to reach out
to those from whom you are estranged.
Only you know whether reaching out is safe.
Too many times my heart has been wrenched by the easy answers of another.  It has taken years to create a place of relative safety for my heart to begin to heal.

No, I will not tell you what to do.

I will tell you
what my Grammie Hannan
(my father’s mother)
told me,
“IF they don’t like you, 
it is THEIR LOSS!”  

Grammie Hannan ALWAYS had my back.
She still does.

Peace to you and yours. 
Sincerely, Gwen