I didn't sleep very well last night. I'm with my family in Colorado for the week, and I am the lucky one that has had to change beds three times since I've been here (I'm the youngest. It's OK).

Last night, I finally had to share a room, but my roommate's snores were loud enough to penetrate through my earplugs, so I dragged my sheets and blankets out to the couch.

I still couldn't fall asleep which made me think of this drawing I did a while ago.



There's nothing to be afraid of
graphite, marker, colored pencil, ink, and varnish on paper
2005
about 3'x4'

I can't remember exactly when it started, but there was a time when I would wake up every single morning and lie awake in bed for hours before falling back asleep around 7. This was different than my experience last night where my lack of sleep was a result of being in an unfamiliar, somewhat uncomfortable place. It was anxiety that used to wake me up.

There are more details surrounding why this was going on, but it's a story too long to tell now. Looking back, I realize I was in state of increasing depression, but for many reasons, would not call it that. Instead, I thought I could will whatever was going on away, and I believed that it was my fault I couldn't sleep because of the way I was, that I was doing something wrong during daylight hours to deserve this. If I could make myself a better person, I would sleep. I know now, this only made my anxieties worse.

I remember all of this so clearly in 2007, after just graduating from college and living alone for the first time. It was agonizing, and in the early fall of that year, I named what was going on depression, and decided in October to go to L'abri in Switzerland to finally "work on it."

It's interesting to me to look at the above drawing and see how long I let myself live like that. I made the drawing about waking up at night in a state of panic (see the sillhouette of the monster in the closet) and how it was impossible to ease my thoughts at that time of the morning, and how merely waking up for the day around 8 or 9 am alleviated most of the trauma. I named it There's nothing to be afraid of because, even then, I knew my anxieties and fears were exaggerated. They weren't real, and trying to fight them off in the darkest hours of night was pointless.

Two years later in October 2007, I flew to Switzerland to stay at L'abri. Fighting off my fears there was anything but pointless. I decided to face everything that was going on and fight it to it's death, learning that fighting really meant giving up. I left there seven weeks later with the most clarity and insight I had ever had up to that point. I knew I still had a long road ahead, but I was granted a huge victory there.

A few weeks into my stay there, I went to bed one night on the top bunk in the same room as three other girls in Chalet Bellevue, and I slept through the night for the first time in years.

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More on the drawing: 

The painting above the bed is from a page in Goodnight Moon, the pillow is the pattern from the bedspread in Popcorn, Wes Clanton took the photo that I used for this drawing, and it is of me in my bed from childhood that I used while I lived in Shelbourne Towers. I chose to make the bed a similar green as the pipes in Super Mario Brothers. The monster is actually from an old children's book where a dog thinks he's a lion. I can't think of the name of the book at the moment, but he is also in this screenprint I made.






















He's actually very cute.

I am very pleased to announce this show. Very very pleased.

I read an article a long time ago that told me, as a female, never to say the words "We need to talk," to a man. I understood then to some extent. Those words can be daunting.

It's funny how much I took this advice to heart though, considering the article was in Cosmopolitan or something. I find myself trying to take the edge off those words as much as I can. I say instead, "Can I talk to you?" or "I need to talk to you." Is that easier for a man to take? I don't know.

It's a frustrating discussion because underlying this advice is the statement that men don't want a woman to talk to him about serious things. But if a man has respect for a woman and cares for her as a person, even if it's not on a romantic level, she should be able to say whatever she wants if it means communicating in a healthy manner. If he is truly a man, he should be able to handle it.

I have realized, however, that there is a phrase a woman most likely never wants to hear from a man, and that is this. After she opens up to a man in conversation, or tries to convey her feelings, the most frustrating thing he can say is "I don't know what you want me to say."

Out of all the appropriate responses he could have, I can assure you that this is not what she wants him to say. If you don't know why, we need to talk.

I'd like to invite anyone reading this to my art opening this Friday March 4, 2011 at Rala, 323 Union Avenue. Rala is located in between Reruns, on the southeast corner of Market Square, and Gay Street. The opening is from 5 to 9pm. I will be there from 6 to 9.

I made this collection of work specifically with Rala in mind. It is art for the home, small, made from salvage. There will even be a small table on display, built by Knox Janowick, refinished by yours truly, designed by both of us.

Everything will be for sale, and whoever buys supports:

• me, the artist
• Rala, the great shop that supports artists and does the selling so we don't have to
• Knox Heritage, the non-profit I sell architectural salvage for

Hope to see you then!!

If you can't come Friday, you will have a chance to see my work through the end of March, and then whatever is left through the end of April.




















Table made using architectural salvage. Built by Knox Janowick, finished by Beth Meadows


I'd like to live beneath the dirt acrylic on salvaged wood






















Preserves No. 21 on wood arcylic on salvaged wood




















Laurel Theater salvaged tin and glass, graphite, marker, colored pencil on paper, wood



Dinner Party, photograph in salvaged window

it just dawned on me that art making and backpacking are similar at times. in the midst of both, sometimes i stop and wonder why the hell am i doing this to myself,

like when you find yourself in the fetal position on a piece of chip board in the middle of your studio, mumbling, "noooooooo" because you've broken 15 pieces of glass trying to do your own framing (totally made up scenario. never happened to me)

or when you're screaming into the windy and foggy void with a thrashing trash bag in hand on top of Clingman's Dome (benjamin rucker),

but you keep doing it because you're crazy and you can't stop... i guess this could apply to anything one is passionate about...

i am passionate right now about art and i'm pretty ticked at it, too. it's killing me. but i'll keep doing it until my hands give out.

and with these thoughts, i bid you a goodnight.

goodnight

Before school each day when I was younger, I'd make my breakfast of choice, pick up the newspaper, and turn straight to the comics section. Over the years, my dad would say things like, "I'm so glad you read the paper everyday. It's great that you want to know what's going on in the world." He knew I never strayed far from the one section.

Today, part of my job is clipping articles about historic preservation, architects, development, and history. On one level, it's a base task, but I enjoy and appreciate it because, unfortunately by nature, I am not a reader of text unless there is an interesting image next to it.

During this daily task, in an effort to continue my comic reading ritual, I treat myself when I reach that alluring, colorful section. My favorites are Mutts, Arlo and Janis, Peanuts, Bizarro, Lio, and sometimes Brevity, Zits, Non Sequitar, Get Fuzzy, and Pearls Before Swine. I typically skip the rest.

And the Sunday Comics? I take those with me to read in the morning with a cup of coffee.

I just returned from DC where I spent the last three days. There's lots to say about it; I loved the city and I love the people with which I was able to see the city. The things to take in are endless. I'll have to go back, and thanks to Megabus, it's highly likely it will be sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, I talked my friend Jeff, who lives there, into getting out and doing more while he lives there, to honor those who are not as privileged (me). I inspired him so much so, he started a blog, in which he makes me sound really nice.

Anyway, this post documents some of the paintings I liked the most during the trip. I've never considered taking photos in an art museum before, mostly because I think it's tacky, but I finally embraced it this time around because I'm tired of forgetting the artwork I've seen. It really is a great way to document and remember the work I think is compelling. Unfortunately I got a little carried away and took photos of work that was  off limits.  I finally got caught attempting to take a photo of a ginormous painting of LL Cool J, which was pretty embarrassing and, let's face it, tacky.

So in no particular order, here is some of the work I liked. Some have the reason below. Others, you'll just have to guess why.



A version of this painting lived in my head before I saw it. I have had plans of making one so similar, only the buck would be white. I'll still probably make it.



I learned I am enamored with painted wood carvings. There were lots in the folk section of the Portrait Gallery. I'm dreaming of going to the mountains to find a teacher.





Mary Cassatt by Degas: I enjoy seeing artists paint other artists or famous friends. Cassatt hated this painting, which I also enjoy.



All of Queen Elizabeth's accessories and ruffles float on top of the painting. It is bizarre and wonderful.



Shahn: I wasn't supposed to take a photo of this (whoops) but like the simplicity and how Shahn decided to add text and sign his name.



I like the creepiness of this because it's probably not supposed to be that creepy.



The dark behind the red and white, and the fleshy, melancholic girl.



Capturing transparency typically baffles me.



In some regard, I think Hopper and I make similar paintings, of course, I in a less wonderful manner. Or maybe it is that I just want to make paintings like Hopper....



I like when Picasso's work doesn't look so Picasso.



This interior scene shows red walls, the ceiling in the distance, a cluttered desk, and a bearded man holding a cat. What is there not to like?



The different markings in this painting are incredible. I'd die to make a painting in such a manner. (Is this Degas? I can't remember)





Klimt



Probably my favorite, which pleasantly surprised me.



The texture and the edges and the white





Thiebaud: Even better in real life. Looks like he painted it like one would decorate a cake. Delicious.



Rothko: Color fields

Calder: The shadow is a constantly moving drawing





















Toulouse Lautrec - the looseness of the background.































































Van Gogh- I know it's cliche, but I love him. I also love that he painted this baby using a green palette, which is typically used to depict absinthe consumption.

I made the mistake of reading the Wikipedia entry for John Wayne Gacy on Sunday. I guess it wasn't a mistake. I knew what I was doing.

I've been listening to Age of Adz constantly since I saw Sufjan Stevens last November. I finally got around to reading some of the lyrics to his songs Sunday afternoon. They are so intense and full of emotion, songs that mostly revolve around the story of the self-proclaimed prophet, Royal Robertson, a schizophrenic who estranged himself from everyone he knew, even his wife and children.



What is so fascinating to me is that even after knowing that most of the album is about Robertson, it is still powerful, it impacts me deeply, and I relate to it in an uncanny way.

Sufjan Stevens has done the same type of thing before. One of his most beautiful songs is about one of the most horrific stories. I didn't know the extent of Gacy's crimes until I read about them on Sunday.

I haven't been that engrossed in reading in a long time. I am usually completely ADD when text is in front of me, but I was glued to this story.

Why is it that we become so engrossed with stories such as this? The accounts that should make us cover our eyes make us wide-eyed. Truman Capote became relentless in capturing the whole story for In Cold Blood. Knoxville followed the trials for the torturing and murders of Channon Christian and Chris Newsom. Dr. Helen Morrison, who interviewed Gacy during his trial, actually kept his brain after it was removed post-execution. We are obsessed with knowing what kind of person would do these things, what their life was like before, and how far over the edge they fell.



Gacy as a boy

I don't really have an answer, and I'm not sure if I'm looking for one. All I can think is that we become intrigued knowing someone could take the anger or sadness that is in all of us to such a level. If we are honest, we understand, to our horror, that if one thing was different about our lives, it could have been us.


In my best behavior I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards, for the secrets I have hid.

I borrowed Magnolia from a friend the other day because I had never seen it. After reading about Gacy, I couldn't bring myself to watch anything that would add to my deep melancholic state. I'm not going to watch it (for now) and though I had been toying with the idea, I finally decided not to see Black Swan. I'm sure Natalie Portman's performance is award-winning and I'm sure it is good art, but I know these things won't overshadow what else watching the movie will mean to me. I know being an artist means exposing myself to all forms of art, but I also know my limitations. Am I a pansy? Maybe that is partially true, but there is more to it that I won't get into at the moment. For now, the tragic images and stories of reality are enough for me to lament over; right now, I can't purposefully add more.

In other news, I'm ready for winter to be over.