angel base

I am an early riser. To wake at six something AM is late for me. This morning, I woke to birds chirping, their music brought such enormous pleasure, made me think of spring though I am certain I heard the meteorologist predict another snowfall. I knew it was late because dawn had etched itself around the parameters of my window shades. I recall sending a text to a couple of friends last week to inquire if there was an emoticon that means screaming at the top of my lungs because I felt like I was being bullied on the playground. It was a weird seven days that I liken to skiing. You start at a high point hoping for a smooth run but there are obstacles in the distance, some you see and avoid others that seem to pop up out of nowhere and must be dealt with. You continue to navigate the slope to the best of your ability regardless of or taking into consideration what has previously occurred; the end is always at the bottom of a hill. You’re either standing or maybe you fell earlier and just slid all the way down. So perhaps that is my reason for not rising before the sun…I am on the ground exhausted!

I don’t understand how we profess the desire to have our hearts desire yet fill every minute so the path is no longer accessible for those things or people to come in or for us to get out. Are we more afraid that we aren’t going to get what we desire or that we are? At every turn, we are our own worst saboteurs and need to get out of our own way. How is it that things, events, words, inconsequential beings from our past seem to jump up and knock us off course just when we are hitting our stride? I have forgiven, wishing to ski free and clear of it and them. Somehow all of that past won't detach, annoyingly nipping at our heels. Then there is all this other stuff that is completely out of our control because we each have the right to make our own decisions about our health, our lives. People come to a fork that leads to the bunny slope or the master trail. The choice they make will be what is right for them no matter how detrimental it may seem to me. Way too much swirling around, no wonder I slept longer than normal!

My week did indeed start at the top of a mountain, perfect serene exhilaration. I so wanted to stay right there, put on my sunglasses, enjoy the view. Now at the base, I'm looking up and thinking, why not make some snow angels while I'm down here so...

keep your peepers open! ®

brown edged allure

The allure of photographs probably beckoned the first time my eight-year-young eyes beheld a Playboy centerfold. Certainly I had seen a naked adult female body before just not one so gloriously posed, all her magnificence so openly displayed with a staple in her belly button. I remember vigilantly listening for the screen door to slam (my signal that an intruder had left the backyard barbeque) as I carefully paged through the magazine scrutinizing each lay out. Neither shocked nor titillated by the taboo that wasn’t carefully hidden, the compositions were artistic and tasteful, not the words of a child of course but something in me at that age recognized the appeal of a well framed shot.

Fast forward to high school when I took a photography class that solidified my love for those moments instantaneously captured by a device that evolved from a box with a pinhole. One of the assignments was to use the camera to study a specific subject. By this period in my life, I had developed a fascination with architecture. I remember being whisked up to dizzying heights in search of gargoyles and other ornate gilding found way up in the Manhattan atmosphere. I can’t pinpoint on the chronology line when I became keen on black and white photos. I can say that it was James VanDerZee’s picture of Jean-Michel Basquiat that caught my eye. As I studied the figure with locks in his hair positioned like The Thinker, I knew the portrait would not have had the same effect on me had it been in color. Imogen Cunningham’s nudes raised eyebrows in her day, garnered approving nods from me who now recognized that a tastefully disrobed body positioned just so could also be erotic and sensual. And I will not soon forget holding a $4000 vintage sepia photo taken by Fan Ho. The 1957 image of a sail boat in the waters of Hong Kong, moonlight reflecting yet unseen, lured me into its shadows, made me wonder if a mysterious being lingered waiting to meet me in the dark of the floating vessel.

My interest in pictures that exquisitely preserve a single second in nature began when Ansel Adams personally showed me his landscapes. Exposure to his exposures gave me an appreciation for places and spaces I had yet to visit, encouraged travel. Andy Goldsworthy opened my eyes to the unexpected outdoors all around me prompting me to carry a small camera on my person years before my I Phone became de rigueur. But there is a professional whose name is not world-renowned, at least not yet. His visions make me see a new view of the familiar; my adoration of flowers blooms more brightly on each occasion that I am fortunate enough to peruse his countless catalogues and files. Through his eye I witness the perky wonder of fresh baby buds, the elegance of fading brown edged petals no longer erect with life. I was able to articulate the span of the human cycle of birth to death through a continuum of his pictures that made me weep. Seeing them hung together as an installation in a pediatric facility proved that pure beauty really is ageless, defies the grip of illness, can never die in the eyes of one who loves what he beholds.

No matter how many times I go to the studio, I am sure I will never see all that the lens of Bert Shankman has captured. I am thrilled to have a bouquet of his work in both my home and office, giddy to have discovered a parallel between my collage goddesses and his blossoms, and was so honored when he named the sepia-toned image to the right after me. It won him an award; he is a gem. You will surely be remiss if you don’t visit Bert’s site as the three images he graciously allowed me to post only represent the thousands he has taken. I am determined that we will exhibit together someday soon so…

keep your peepers open! ®

pink postcards

After another brutal rush hour this past Thursday (all because we just can’t seem to get these streets cleared here in the Nation’s Capitol), I stepped out of my car to steady my wobbly nerves. As I locked the door to Jasper (my automobile), I happened to look up into the sky, saw a single pink cloud, and was immediately enamored with the simplicity of natures tiny painting so far from reach. I stood transfixed in Zen, breathing deep, savoring the hush, glad to have arrived home with my sanity still in tact. When I looked down a few minutes later, I was
none too pleased to see that my brown suede boots were soaking in a puddle…but the pink cloud was there too. I had to smile and capture the picture postcard below my feet because that’s just how life goes -- there is beauty in both the downs and ups, we just have to find it so...

keep your peepers open! ®

designing women

If you have ever watched Inside the Actor’s Studio, you know that James Lipton asks his guests a final list of questions just before he opens it up to the audience. The one that gets my attention, besides what’s your favorite curse word, is other than acting what profession would you have pursued. My non-traditional career path had so many forks as I traveled along the way that a definite profession never appeared on a sign I could decipher, which used to bother me especially during job interviews. I would clearly articulate my experience; the person across the desk criticized me for not having direction. What I didn’t get as I nursed my bruised ego was I didn’t get it -- the quest to keep working in corporate was just a detour on my trip.

Some innate compass knew the exact pinpoints on my map and on occasion steered me to rest stops that did not feel like a place of relief at all! However, each had some valuable tool for the trunk and honestly, the things I deep down desired to be or do have manifested in ways I never could have imagined. I believed I would be a ballerina – I now incorporate dance and movement that anyone can do into my work. Kindergarten was the grade I longed to teach - I have developed and facilitated hundreds of workshops for a countless number of students of all ages. Sitting across from Mr. Lipton was surely a destination for the aspiring actress in me – I am a professional speaker whose stage changes with every speech or seminar I am asked to deliver. I pleaded to change my major to interior design in college – didn’t happen, didn’t need to, my natural ability to pull an esthetically pleasing room together would have been stifled by someone whose eye was not mine. But the biggest high on my journey was reconnecting with collage art, something I enjoyed while a maturing girl. Only this time around, the art is sophisticated on many levels, a cumulative expression of all that is my life.

To date, I have created 63 goddess collages that evolved from exquisite nude torsos that celebrate the luscious body to evocative extraterrestrial-like creatures with a semblance of heads, eyes and appendages to a sub-series of goddesses called the paper dolls. The dolls have allowed me to cruise back alongside the frustrated corporate chick that fled Croton-on-Hudson every Saturday morning to sit in the haven of a ten AM fashion design class at FIT in NYC. After school, I spent hours at the kitchen table dreaming up elaborate gowns, slick pants ensembles as I mastered every lesson. Present day, I lose all sense of time at the dining room table designing these paper doll women who fall out in distinctive clothing that I use every ounce of creative license to devise. A former clothes horse who climbed down from her saddle into a more streamlined look embellished by jewelry, style is never lost on me nor will it be on them.

It’s kismet. The writing is flowing and my passion for photography reignited just as I pulled up at the corner of artiste and haute couture with vintage LV luggage packed with all that is needed to do what I was sent here to be. Fits like a glove, suits me to a T, all I can say is…

keep your peepers open! ®

v-day!

Since the snow had me on lock down last week, I decided to surprise my four nieces with handmade Valentine’s Day cards. I broke out my orange box of 16 Crayola watercolors (so much funner than the one with just eight shades to choose from) and painted several vibrant, abstract hearts that I was pleased with. But as I sat back to admire them, I knew they lacked something. I find that taking a picture of my creations offers me a different perspective of the piece, as if I am looking with someone else’s eye. Upon critique, my works of art needed more than a white background to give them a bit more panache. I sorted through and selected origami paper with colors, designs and textures I felt would compliment the painted hearts and let the cutting and pasting begin; what I chose provided the perfect finishing touch for each one.

Wishing all you we’s and you we’s to be and you I’s who don’t desire to be a we whatever your heart desires on this V-day and as always…

keep your peepers open! ®

snoy vey

And the snow continues in DC! These back-to-back storms really are unusual for this town witness our inability to get the stuff adequately cleaned off the streets so life can continue. I am a native Washingtonian who can’t believe the nation’s capitol is close to paralyzed because of the weather. SN-OY VEY! Just needed to do a mini-vent…

Snow for me is just wondrous. I remember my red puffy suit I wore as a toddler that made me waddle around like a scarlet penguin or maybe I should say I recall the pictures of me standing stiffly in it. We always seemed to be overdressed, i.e., overstuffed for the outdoor occasions that called for this attire. Snow suits were really something to contend with, especially if you had to go to the potty! Happy to say I have graduated to a more sophisticated look to bundle up in for a trek in this inclement weather (black down filled jacket coupled with black stretch pants over silk long johns) that allows for lots of mobility and quick access for emergencies ;).

Regardless of what I have worn throughout the years, the layers of clothing I piled on kept me toasty as I wandered out to marvel at snow. But there is something about this bizarre weather of late that has caused a serious shift in my norm. In order to capture a pix, I have dashed onto the cold concrete floor of my balcony in bare feet and nothing more than my favorite cashmere sweater, thrown a coat over my birthday suit, jammed my un-socked tootsies into ankle high all weather boots, grabbed a baseball cap and sailed out the door. The elements and I have become one, my body practically forgotten, and miraculously with each step into deep snow only an inconsequential amount of the moist powder has dropped into each boot giving me a rush…I shiver with glee every time it makes contact with my skin.

One of the things I have noticed while out and about are the different personalities each storm brings to fore. When I headed out at 4:30am on 2/3, there was such stillness in the air, like the earth was holding her breath, I know I was holding mine not wanting it to escape and shatter the silence. The air…soft kisses gently planting. The morning of 2/6, I was swathed in a warm blanket of cool snowflakes. I found myself speaking tranquil thoughts to the wind as it moved with ease around me arousing all of my senses. Today, I opened the drapes to a complete white out. My heart fluttered, the recently aroused photo eye desiring to capture a moment. But the storm is tempestuous on this Wednesday, the air frigid, unwelcoming. A blizzard that whipped my barely dressed bare self blew me back with some serious passion in her breath just after she granted me one shot and let me know…we’re all entitled to be a little nasty sometimes and this day was hers.

I’m gearing up to go out without the camera and just let momma nature do what she do. I believe a little snow spanking is just what I need to refresh my soul and spirit so…

keep your peepers open! ®

pix(ie) in paradise

DC has been dealt a serious snow blow! We’ve managed to elude heavy snow storms for years and now it’s our turn, as my pals from Chicago and Minneapolis so eagerly reminded me. I love the wet white stuff and will romp through it squealing just like a little kid when it drops down into my inadequate boots. This weekend marks the third snowfall in a week; I have grabbed my I Phone each time to snap some pixs.

Jan 30 early PM…

Feb 3 @ 4:30 AM… I yanked up the shades and through the glass from my back window…

I had to be out there. A fur coat, boots and a hat…I felt like a pixie in my own personal paradise of whisper soft snow under a sepia sky...

At 7:00 as light dawned, it was still so magical in the small park out front, like a fairy land…

my favorite tree...

An hour later as I headed out to the office, I looked up into a marvelous sky…

Feb 6 early AM…once again, I glanced out the back window into a bright night…

At dawn, the steady falling snow was still falling and when I got downstairs, the front door was blocked. Not one to be deterred, I pushed against it forcing it open and walked out into a blinding blizzard. Snow met my knees, crunched under my unsure steps; there was no way to really discern what was where under the never ending alabaster blanket beneath my boots. Cautious, I found my way to my destination, planted myself in blissful solitude and allowed the flakes to turn me into a human snow goddess with an I Phone camera…

Looking at this one later…if I walked through that opening into the glow I would be somewhere far away from DC, in a world unknown…

For a moment as I climbed the stairs to go back in I thought I’d fly back down and out to bury myself in the drifts. I paused on the landing, looked out …

…and opted to snuggle under my chocolate brown oversized CozyChic ® throw. Peeling off my jacket and hat, a chill surged through my body due in part to 30 minutes exposure in freezing temperatures without my gloves and to some degree by the thrill of what I had experienced just outside my front door…but nothing that a bowl of oatmeal couldn’t handle…

The amount of snow that covered DC was a bit daunting, set a record, practically stopped the city, kept the mailmen from their appointed rounds, beckoned to the adventurous, delighted children, and elated many. It will take some time to unearth ourselves from what under the sunlight of day looks rather alien. But up and out I will go to be refreshed by the wintry swirls of wind mixed with loose snow encouraging all of you who are out there with me to grab a camera if you have one and…

keep your peepers open! ®

...which I did, I present the glorious morning after...

dodge ball

Hate is a strong word that I don’t use very often so when I say I hate the playground period of what might eventually become a relationship I really mean it! You know those days after you first meet someone great then enter into the world series of dodge ball? Your aim is to be a good and fair player while secretly believing that you’ve got that bobbin’ and weavin’ thing down as you begin to disclose the many nuances that make you you. The ball is thrown, you dodge it with dexterity, you think SCORE! But what about all the times you move a little too quickly and lose your footing or just flat out get knocked on your ass? I hate to admit it, but I’m still trying to master being the mistress of agility and though I am a Libra, balancing is an act sometimes off center not to mention that baggage we naively think is stored nicely in the back of a locker somewhere until it shows up on the top of our heads throwing us off balance at the most inopportune moment. We start to wonder if the other person is going to initiate another round or leave the field entirely.

Honestly I am really shy by nature and find the whole getting to know you thing not quite as melodic as the song. That said, I have met people on my own, been personally introduced, accepted blind dates, met men online that either did or did not lead to a date, and dexted (I assumed in this day and age that dexting had to be a word so I Googled. No surprise, there it was in the urban dictionary however, their meaning did not quite fit mine because I did not meet my dexter on a singles website and had actually seen my dexting suitor in a suit). Dating via text has its moments. The sound of two taps on a crystal glass that signaled a waiting message when I turned on my phone in the morning never failed to jump start my sleepy heart. I began to anticipate daily exchanges and nightly affections that sent me soundly off to sleep, pouted when they didn’t come. Now if you’ve been reading The Eclectic Eye with any regularity, you know that I don’t necessarily espouse electronic communication. There is too much room for misunderstanding exactly how some words are intended when you actually know someone. Imagine how crazy it can get when you really aren’t all that familiar with how a person speaks. Way too much misinterpretation flows between the wires and before you know it, you’re on your booty by your lonesome with your lips stuck out.

Regardless of how you do the dating thing, we’ve all got a bag with some stuff in it and all of it is not bad stuff. When you knock a person down or they stumble, extend your hand and help them...there was something about them that attracted you in the first place. Start there and begin again. But if the game is stopped at the first sign of a challenge and the towel is thrown in, think of it this way, you still won because now you’re a step closer to the one. And here’s a tip for the score card…go for the full sensory experience that comes with physically getting together for a date. Trust a girl who knows, no texted picture will ever feel like that first kiss from a new somebody and when you do smooch don’t…

keep your peepers open! ® …at least not the first time ;)