My sister-in-law sent me a link to this video for my birthday yesterday. It made me very happy. I think it proves the value of introduction to art history courses. My favorite is the recreation of Les Meninas by Velazquez. But, the reference to David's Death of Marat is fun, too.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Codices of Childhood, a beginning
If there is one thing we like around here, it is books. It is my easiest love. I like good, fresh, well-made food, but I can cave in pretty quickly for McDonald's french fries and Chipotle guacamole. I like good clothes, but the washing and ironing can make my passion run cold. But, good books... they are charming with a little dust, and I find it so simple to overlook the poor ones in exchange for the pleasure of hunting down the best ones. The only problem is where to fit them all into our little house. We could probably open a small library specializing in children's literature and early modern illustrated books with a splash of Steinbeck for a rainy morning and a taste of the Bronte sisters for a late, lonely night. (I love reading the gloomy, dark parts of Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre while I wait for Jay when he has to be out late.)
Right now, my attention is focused on our children's books. Our collection began with my own little childhood library, well-edited by my mother. I started to read to Audrey from her first night at home. Over time, I wandered through many libraries and meandered through lots of bookstores, collecting tiny gems along the way. I want a venue to share our some of the favorite books we have secreted away on our shelves, ones we turn to over and over or those that we borrow so frequently from the library that they feel that they at least in part belong to us. So on occasion, I will post entries about the contents of our collection. For fun, I think I'll call these entries The Codices of Childhood. (Codex is the Latin term for book and codices is its plural form.) Yes, I'm a nerd.
Pictured above is the cover of my favorite book from Audrey's babyhood. I found our copy at a children's clothing consignment shop for a dollar when Audrey was about one year old. I'd not heard of it before then, but it is really quite famous I think and was given a Caldecott Honor Award for its illustrations. We used to read it every night before bed as we were establishing her bedtime routine and well into her second year. It has all the elements of the best bedtime baby books: wonderful pictures, text that sounds lovely in your ear when you read it aloud, and a quality of cozy goodness. My favorite things about this book are the seashell mobile, the row of 7 shoes that make you wonder where the eighth might be (hint: watch that black cat!), and the bond between the father and little one that doesn't need to be explicit in the text or illustrations, but just oozes out in the everyday-ness of bedtime like it should in real life.
Oh, I can't wait to tell you more. About board books versus "real paper books", Goodnight Moon and Post-Impressionism, Tennyson's poetry as baby literature, wandering the children's room of the library, and more, more, more, but I have to go now and read...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Working from home
I find myself snuggling with a little sleeping baby and listening to my four year old try to read to herself during her rest time while I work today. On my task list - find a sheet to cover distracting playthings in a classroom during lessons. Such ugly options at my usual shopping haunts. So I found lovely bright old sheets for sale at the same cost with cheery ferns and butterflies and sherbet-like colors. All in all a lovely day at work. And a friend came over to cook me a lunch of dumplings, noodles, and pork buns. I am enjoying a taste of the new earth today, I think.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Bedtime story
Today I felt a bit like Frances.
"Well," said Frances, "things are not very good
around here anymore. No clothes to wear.
No raisins for the oatmeal.
I think maybe I'll run away."
"What time will dinner be tonight?" said Frances.
"Half past six," said Mother.
"Then I will have plenty of time to run away
after dinner," said Frances,
and she kissed her mother good-bye
and went to school.
I'd like to run away.
"Where are you running away to?" said Father.
"I think that under the dining-room table is the best place,"
said Frances. "It's cozy,
and the kitchen is near if I run out of cookies."
But not very far. And to somewhere with cookies nearby.
From our bedtime story A Baby Sister for Frances by Russell Hoban, 1964, renewed 1992.
"Well," said Frances, "things are not very good
around here anymore. No clothes to wear.
No raisins for the oatmeal.
I think maybe I'll run away."
"What time will dinner be tonight?" said Frances.
"Half past six," said Mother.
"Then I will have plenty of time to run away
after dinner," said Frances,
and she kissed her mother good-bye
and went to school.
I'd like to run away.
"Where are you running away to?" said Father.
"I think that under the dining-room table is the best place,"
said Frances. "It's cozy,
and the kitchen is near if I run out of cookies."
But not very far. And to somewhere with cookies nearby.
From our bedtime story A Baby Sister for Frances by Russell Hoban, 1964, renewed 1992.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
My sense of things, Vivi ed.
I see my big sister; my face breaks into a smile.
I feel the fluffy tuft of hair on my stuffed monster; it comforts me.
I smell so good.
I taste my hands; they fill me with wonder.
I listen to Emerald Road, track 10; it soothes me when I'm fussy.
I feel the fluffy tuft of hair on my stuffed monster; it comforts me.
I smell so good.
I taste my hands; they fill me with wonder.
I listen to Emerald Road, track 10; it soothes me when I'm fussy.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
JUICE and the last five years
or "In which I am exposed as completely ridiculous"
Today, a sad thing happened. They took JUICE away. I don't know if I will see her again. JUICE is our 2005 red Subaru Forester, so named because her license plate includes the letters JUC, and it made me think "juice" when I first saw it. No one knew I called her JUICE, but I did.
As a bit of background, I have a long history of intimate associations with inanimate objects. On my last day of first grade, I kissed my desk goodbye. It had been a good desk. As we moved out of my house at 3504 Greenwood Avenue when I was thirteen, I kissed each mint green wall of my bedroom goodbye. It had been a good room. When I was visiting home in my early twenties, my family had an idyllic day of togetherness at Laguna Beach during which my mom bought a piece of furniture to hold CDs. When she returned it because it did not fit into the spot she intended for it, I wept. It represented the foursome I had left.
So now that we have established that I am ridiculous, let me continue telling you about JUICE.
We bought her in August 2004 shortly after we moved to California. She was the fourth car I had owned and the second new one, and I had no idea she was so important to me until today. On New Year's Eve, on our tenth anniversary, we were driving her to Berkeley to see The Fantastic Mr. Fox and eat at Chez Panisse Cafe. A sleepy driver rear-ended and side-swiped JUICE. (We are all fine, and maybe one day I will tell you more about that, but this is about JUICE.)
Today, the tow truck came to take her away to the auto body shop. Some think she will be totalled. Maybe I will never see her again.
I emptied her of most of our belongings last night. Happy Meal toys, antibacterial wipes, Purell, bandaids, tissues, extra straws, maps, the audio versions of Winnie-the-Pooh and Frog and Toad Together, a CD of Bible songs, the new Avett Bros. album, some Christmas albums that should have already been tucked away for next year, stray pacifiers, the pencils and papers I carry around for work, Jay's sunglasses. I took out the last few things this afternoon when the auto body shop told me to expect the tow truck within the hour.
The driver took her out of our garage while my daughters were sleeping. He loaded her onto his rig in front of our house while I stood on the curb alone watching. She is wounded, but still lovely to me. I grew very sad. I remembered loading my first tiny new baby into her and driving my little one home. I remember only months ago driving in the earliest morning hours to the hospital to give birth to my second child. I remembered taking a three month old Audrey on our first daytrip sans Daddy just to see if I could. I remembered all the days we girls drove into the city to see art and have adventures. I remembered how when Audrey would not fall asleep when a baby I drove her up and down 85 until she slept. (I realize this is environmentally unsound, but she had GERD, and she screamed, and this worked, and if this happened to you, you would forgive me and totally understand.) I remember how I drove an hour to Santa Cruz and back once a week for a year to teach a fifty minute art class, use my M.A., and be self-actualized. I remember how one day driving over the Santa Cruz Mountains in JUICE I realized this was not serving God or my family and came to my senses and decided to be satisfied even if I was "unactualized." Errands, trips to see family in So. Cal., JUICE was an extension of our home.
She signified to me on this grey afternoon the last five years. Good years. In which my children were born, my grandparents died, I grew up a lot, my husband lost his job, I found community, and wore a miniskirt as a bridesmaid while pregnant. Years that look a lot like JUICE does now - banged up, but beautiful to me. Years in which God has changed me, humbled me, brought me low, showed me my inadequacy, and loved me anyway, and taught me to know this.
Five years ago we moved to California for my husband's job, bought a Forester, and started a family. Now that job is gone and maybe JUICE is too. That little family we started is moving on. To what new adventures, I am not sure. But today, I paused to remember a little threesome, a mommy and daddy and a little girl driving down the road laughing and singing off key to good music. I stopped to think about the first time they rode together with their new baby. I thought about a husband and wife who giddily escaped their parental responsibilities for good food and a quiet spot to read some decent books and snuggle in the city. I smile and get a little weepy.
Goodbye last five years. Goodbye JUICE. I should have kissed you goodbye. You were a good car.
Today, a sad thing happened. They took JUICE away. I don't know if I will see her again. JUICE is our 2005 red Subaru Forester, so named because her license plate includes the letters JUC, and it made me think "juice" when I first saw it. No one knew I called her JUICE, but I did.
As a bit of background, I have a long history of intimate associations with inanimate objects. On my last day of first grade, I kissed my desk goodbye. It had been a good desk. As we moved out of my house at 3504 Greenwood Avenue when I was thirteen, I kissed each mint green wall of my bedroom goodbye. It had been a good room. When I was visiting home in my early twenties, my family had an idyllic day of togetherness at Laguna Beach during which my mom bought a piece of furniture to hold CDs. When she returned it because it did not fit into the spot she intended for it, I wept. It represented the foursome I had left.
So now that we have established that I am ridiculous, let me continue telling you about JUICE.
We bought her in August 2004 shortly after we moved to California. She was the fourth car I had owned and the second new one, and I had no idea she was so important to me until today. On New Year's Eve, on our tenth anniversary, we were driving her to Berkeley to see The Fantastic Mr. Fox and eat at Chez Panisse Cafe. A sleepy driver rear-ended and side-swiped JUICE. (We are all fine, and maybe one day I will tell you more about that, but this is about JUICE.)
Today, the tow truck came to take her away to the auto body shop. Some think she will be totalled. Maybe I will never see her again.
I emptied her of most of our belongings last night. Happy Meal toys, antibacterial wipes, Purell, bandaids, tissues, extra straws, maps, the audio versions of Winnie-the-Pooh and Frog and Toad Together, a CD of Bible songs, the new Avett Bros. album, some Christmas albums that should have already been tucked away for next year, stray pacifiers, the pencils and papers I carry around for work, Jay's sunglasses. I took out the last few things this afternoon when the auto body shop told me to expect the tow truck within the hour.
The driver took her out of our garage while my daughters were sleeping. He loaded her onto his rig in front of our house while I stood on the curb alone watching. She is wounded, but still lovely to me. I grew very sad. I remembered loading my first tiny new baby into her and driving my little one home. I remember only months ago driving in the earliest morning hours to the hospital to give birth to my second child. I remembered taking a three month old Audrey on our first daytrip sans Daddy just to see if I could. I remembered all the days we girls drove into the city to see art and have adventures. I remembered how when Audrey would not fall asleep when a baby I drove her up and down 85 until she slept. (I realize this is environmentally unsound, but she had GERD, and she screamed, and this worked, and if this happened to you, you would forgive me and totally understand.) I remember how I drove an hour to Santa Cruz and back once a week for a year to teach a fifty minute art class, use my M.A., and be self-actualized. I remember how one day driving over the Santa Cruz Mountains in JUICE I realized this was not serving God or my family and came to my senses and decided to be satisfied even if I was "unactualized." Errands, trips to see family in So. Cal., JUICE was an extension of our home.
She signified to me on this grey afternoon the last five years. Good years. In which my children were born, my grandparents died, I grew up a lot, my husband lost his job, I found community, and wore a miniskirt as a bridesmaid while pregnant. Years that look a lot like JUICE does now - banged up, but beautiful to me. Years in which God has changed me, humbled me, brought me low, showed me my inadequacy, and loved me anyway, and taught me to know this.
Five years ago we moved to California for my husband's job, bought a Forester, and started a family. Now that job is gone and maybe JUICE is too. That little family we started is moving on. To what new adventures, I am not sure. But today, I paused to remember a little threesome, a mommy and daddy and a little girl driving down the road laughing and singing off key to good music. I stopped to think about the first time they rode together with their new baby. I thought about a husband and wife who giddily escaped their parental responsibilities for good food and a quiet spot to read some decent books and snuggle in the city. I smile and get a little weepy.
Goodbye last five years. Goodbye JUICE. I should have kissed you goodbye. You were a good car.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
It's been a long year
New year resolutions never really come true. They are lists of day dreams that we might work on for a few days or weeks until the grey, cold, drudgery of January swallows them up into reality.
But something about the end of a year and the start of a new one makes me feel hopeful. That change can happen. That I won't fall into the same behaviors that make me too busy, too tired, too chubby, too worried, too late, too overwhelmed. However, after 33 new years, I realize that on my own, even with the most well applied efforts and charting systems, I will be all these things probably before the first week of January is over.
Here are my day dreams anyway. Because it has been a long year. And a girl can dream.
In 2010, I want to
cook simple, tasty meals for my family
wade through a couple thoughtful books on art history
linger in the stack of delicious unread novels on my bookshelf
grow something that my family can eat and share with our friends
pretend with Audrey
immerse myself in the gospel
snuggle with Vivienne
order my photos and make baby books
go to a concert with Jay
play with my friends
take day trips with my girls
adventure in NYC with Audrey
be intentional at my work
plan my days
rejoice always; pray continually
But something about the end of a year and the start of a new one makes me feel hopeful. That change can happen. That I won't fall into the same behaviors that make me too busy, too tired, too chubby, too worried, too late, too overwhelmed. However, after 33 new years, I realize that on my own, even with the most well applied efforts and charting systems, I will be all these things probably before the first week of January is over.
Here are my day dreams anyway. Because it has been a long year. And a girl can dream.
In 2010, I want to
cook simple, tasty meals for my family
wade through a couple thoughtful books on art history
linger in the stack of delicious unread novels on my bookshelf
grow something that my family can eat and share with our friends
pretend with Audrey
immerse myself in the gospel
snuggle with Vivienne
order my photos and make baby books
go to a concert with Jay
play with my friends
take day trips with my girls
adventure in NYC with Audrey
be intentional at my work
plan my days
rejoice always; pray continually
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