11 Things Every Minnesotan Should Try in 2011.
Now everyone come visit me so we can check some of these puppies off this list.
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
10 February 2011
To-Do List
11 Things Every Minnesotan Should Try in 2011.
Now everyone come visit me so we can check some of these puppies off this list.
18 May 2010
08 May 2010
C&R left early this morning for Mexico...
In the car on the way to the airport I told them about something that happened last night that was horrible and terrifying. It was resolved, but such a scare left me in a bit of a haze.
A few hours later I wrote them this email:
"So,
I have the most anxious dreams last night that consist of being late to a choir concert, to my best friends wedding, not having the dress altered, not having make up on, being locked out of the hotel room and when I finally get in finding they have taped over everything in the shower to fix something.
As I'm standing in the kitchen this morning looking at the oil and vinegar next to the stove (irl) I remember that part of the dream was also that you had turned around and come home from the airport because they wouldn't let you check everything that you wanted to. (In the dream Colleen you were defiantly telling Ridge I'll make that same stuff without all this, you won't even know the difference.)
I'm so glad you weren't actually back home. Not because I (and the pups of course) don't want you here but because you two of all the folks in the world deserve some sun on your bods and smiles on your faces - 2 things I think you'll be able to find on that Mexican beach.
So. After one of the weirdest (horrible) nights, feeling such darkness and desperation, albeit briefly, last night, then with those dreams, then when I finally decide to pay attention to things around me and can handle whatever might be in the roll on the coffee table, then I read your note on it Colleen, and then I cry because I don't know what else to do. Then I unroll Brendan's painting, and it is, and it's different then I remember, but more beautiful then I could ever imagine.
I don't know what planets are shifting or passing or setting, but in a completely weird moment I am so grateful for these dogs, so grateful to be here at this place, and so grateful for you. (In no particular order.)
I love you,
Ole!
Caitlin"
A few hours later I wrote them this email:
"So,
I have the most anxious dreams last night that consist of being late to a choir concert, to my best friends wedding, not having the dress altered, not having make up on, being locked out of the hotel room and when I finally get in finding they have taped over everything in the shower to fix something.
As I'm standing in the kitchen this morning looking at the oil and vinegar next to the stove (irl) I remember that part of the dream was also that you had turned around and come home from the airport because they wouldn't let you check everything that you wanted to. (In the dream Colleen you were defiantly telling Ridge I'll make that same stuff without all this, you won't even know the difference.)
I'm so glad you weren't actually back home. Not because I (and the pups of course) don't want you here but because you two of all the folks in the world deserve some sun on your bods and smiles on your faces - 2 things I think you'll be able to find on that Mexican beach.
So. After one of the weirdest (horrible) nights, feeling such darkness and desperation, albeit briefly, last night, then with those dreams, then when I finally decide to pay attention to things around me and can handle whatever might be in the roll on the coffee table, then I read your note on it Colleen, and then I cry because I don't know what else to do. Then I unroll Brendan's painting, and it is, and it's different then I remember, but more beautiful then I could ever imagine.
I don't know what planets are shifting or passing or setting, but in a completely weird moment I am so grateful for these dogs, so grateful to be here at this place, and so grateful for you. (In no particular order.)
I love you,
Ole!
Caitlin"
20 April 2010
Stroll
Take a walk with me...
I go to clean out my inbox every once in a while but there are emails that I cannot archive much less delete - emails from my brother Brendan. They remain in my inbox, the most recent one almost two years old.
I notice tags and stickers, graffiti, street art, on public property everywhere now, some ugly and poorly thought out, others well planned and well executed, real works of art. I know that the former are probably gang tags, and the latter most likely have nothing to do with turf. I know this because since Brendan died his friends, many of whom put art on the streets, have done what they can to educate me about the difference.
Sometimes in the morning I eat oatmeal. Brendan went through a phase when he was small where he would eat instant oatmeal for breakfast everyday, and after one St. Patrick's Day when Dad added green food dye to his bowl, I don't think he ever ate an oatmeal colored bowl again.
Brendan was born on the 20th day of a month. He died on the 14th day of a different month. Every month has a 20th and a 14th. Every so often, a Friday falls on the 13th day of a month. The last full day Brendan was alive was a Friday the 13th.
I spend a couple days a week standing behind a table at a farmers market and I get to see lots of people, lots of families walk by. There are some boys that have very blonde curly hair. That's what Brendan looked like when he was a child.
Sometimes in a conversation it is relevant for someone to bring up their siblings. Many other women have younger brothers. Brendan was my younger brother.
Most of us every day will deal with font and typeface. Most of us don't know the difference. I found out from his graphic design colleagues that people using those terms interchangeably was a huge pet peeve for Brendan. I also found out that he "didn't do bullet points" in presentations. I use bullet points. Since he died, I question whether I really need to.
Do not hesitate in conversation with me out of fear of reminding me of Brendan or that he died - I would rather you say something that could sound insensitive and have it in front of us than see your pause and the flicker of worry behind your eyes. I need no reminder; my brother, and his absence, are always present. Better you share in it with me than keep yourself at arms length from my honesty - it is much warmer here walking closer to me.
I go to clean out my inbox every once in a while but there are emails that I cannot archive much less delete - emails from my brother Brendan. They remain in my inbox, the most recent one almost two years old.
I notice tags and stickers, graffiti, street art, on public property everywhere now, some ugly and poorly thought out, others well planned and well executed, real works of art. I know that the former are probably gang tags, and the latter most likely have nothing to do with turf. I know this because since Brendan died his friends, many of whom put art on the streets, have done what they can to educate me about the difference.
Sometimes in the morning I eat oatmeal. Brendan went through a phase when he was small where he would eat instant oatmeal for breakfast everyday, and after one St. Patrick's Day when Dad added green food dye to his bowl, I don't think he ever ate an oatmeal colored bowl again.
Brendan was born on the 20th day of a month. He died on the 14th day of a different month. Every month has a 20th and a 14th. Every so often, a Friday falls on the 13th day of a month. The last full day Brendan was alive was a Friday the 13th.
I spend a couple days a week standing behind a table at a farmers market and I get to see lots of people, lots of families walk by. There are some boys that have very blonde curly hair. That's what Brendan looked like when he was a child.
Sometimes in a conversation it is relevant for someone to bring up their siblings. Many other women have younger brothers. Brendan was my younger brother.
Most of us every day will deal with font and typeface. Most of us don't know the difference. I found out from his graphic design colleagues that people using those terms interchangeably was a huge pet peeve for Brendan. I also found out that he "didn't do bullet points" in presentations. I use bullet points. Since he died, I question whether I really need to.
Do not hesitate in conversation with me out of fear of reminding me of Brendan or that he died - I would rather you say something that could sound insensitive and have it in front of us than see your pause and the flicker of worry behind your eyes. I need no reminder; my brother, and his absence, are always present. Better you share in it with me than keep yourself at arms length from my honesty - it is much warmer here walking closer to me.
09 April 2010
01 October 2009
Upturn
I have been so down lately. But that's not so interesting so I won't write on that until I can figure out what was interesting about it.
I feel happy tonight for the first time in weeks. What a relief.
My dear cousin (one of many, but one of a kind) Danny is on the farm here in California; he's staying for a couple weeks to do some portraits of people. He's an artist and has no idea how adorable, or talented, he is. (Some background: Danny is the middle child between Mike, who was born two weeks after me and whom I was in the same class with from 4th through 12th grade, and Annie, whom I've written about before. The three of them and the three of us [Megan, Brendan, and I] were both raised on the East side of Madison and are closer to being siblings than cousins in many ways.)
Tonight Aunt, Uncle, Danny, and I sat around after dinner after having a lively discussion on abortion and health care and somehow got into liquor. I mean for some reason I ended up sitting on the floor rooting through the liquor cabinet and we tasted the difference between a fifty year old whiskey and a much younger scotch, then opened up the encyclopedia to discover the differences between gin and vodka.
As I surrounded myself with dusty and interesting liquor bottles and realized how much fun I was having, even though I have to get up way too early to start the farmers market rotation again, Danny asked me if they were witnessing my downward spiral, and the dog in the meantime had fit three tennis balls in his mouth. I haven't laughed like this in a hot minute and it feels good to dust it off.
I feel happy tonight for the first time in weeks. What a relief.
My dear cousin (one of many, but one of a kind) Danny is on the farm here in California; he's staying for a couple weeks to do some portraits of people. He's an artist and has no idea how adorable, or talented, he is. (Some background: Danny is the middle child between Mike, who was born two weeks after me and whom I was in the same class with from 4th through 12th grade, and Annie, whom I've written about before. The three of them and the three of us [Megan, Brendan, and I] were both raised on the East side of Madison and are closer to being siblings than cousins in many ways.)
Tonight Aunt, Uncle, Danny, and I sat around after dinner after having a lively discussion on abortion and health care and somehow got into liquor. I mean for some reason I ended up sitting on the floor rooting through the liquor cabinet and we tasted the difference between a fifty year old whiskey and a much younger scotch, then opened up the encyclopedia to discover the differences between gin and vodka.
As I surrounded myself with dusty and interesting liquor bottles and realized how much fun I was having, even though I have to get up way too early to start the farmers market rotation again, Danny asked me if they were witnessing my downward spiral, and the dog in the meantime had fit three tennis balls in his mouth. I haven't laughed like this in a hot minute and it feels good to dust it off.
26 July 2009
I get to be in Madison for a quick weekend at the end of next month and I am so happy I get to see this...
http://77square.com/arts/visualarts/story_459399
http://77square.com/arts/visualarts/story_459399
13 June 2009
Following Instructions
I realized with some surprise last month that I followed my own instructions.
My dear Aunt Colleen asked me if I was trying to get my needlepoint project done in time for my sisters' birthday which was less than a month away. I replied that I was in fact trying o complete it for that same date, only for my parents anniversary instead. (My sister was conveniently born on my parents 10th anniversary.) I explained that I felt the significance was that this project was the first thing I've made with my hands since probably middle school art class, and that it was probably more suited for Mom&Dad.
And although I hadn't made this connection directly before, I went on to say how one of my instructions in my eulogy at Brendan's funeral was to "make art":
"... Just SEE ART where you haven't before because Brendan taught me that art is where we may least expect it.
Then make some."
As I was explaining this to Colleen it made me think of something I wrote in a letter to Brendan last week:
"I started writing a blog and I think you'd get a kick out of it. You know I can't draw or sing but the words come out of me in a way I like most of the time, and I'd like to think you'd be proud of me."
Go figure.
My dear Aunt Colleen asked me if I was trying to get my needlepoint project done in time for my sisters' birthday which was less than a month away. I replied that I was in fact trying o complete it for that same date, only for my parents anniversary instead. (My sister was conveniently born on my parents 10th anniversary.) I explained that I felt the significance was that this project was the first thing I've made with my hands since probably middle school art class, and that it was probably more suited for Mom&Dad.
And although I hadn't made this connection directly before, I went on to say how one of my instructions in my eulogy at Brendan's funeral was to "make art":
"... Just SEE ART where you haven't before because Brendan taught me that art is where we may least expect it.
Then make some."
As I was explaining this to Colleen it made me think of something I wrote in a letter to Brendan last week:
"I started writing a blog and I think you'd get a kick out of it. You know I can't draw or sing but the words come out of me in a way I like most of the time, and I'd like to think you'd be proud of me."
Go figure.
08 April 2009
Extravaganza En Memoriam
Tonight I'm presenting my 'story' at my grief group therapy. This is our opportunity to tell the group about the life of the person who died, not just as defined by their death. After going through photos, letters, a DVD, and websites to decided how to piece together my presentation I get that this is a bigger exercise than just talking to 8 other people for half an hour (which I could do without any preparation.)
I was nervous about doing the presentation this week because I was in Kansas City last Thursday through Monday to be at an opening of an art show in honor of Brendan. My aunt, an artist, wife, and mother of two young children, put together a show that spans two galleries, includes artists from multiple cities and genres, and whose opening included several live music performers, fire jugglers, mimes, tightrope walkers, acrobats, live art, and one hell of an after-party. There was something around 30 of our family around for this opening (I'm including a horde of artists from Chicago that made the trip in this number), and most of us were sleeping at various spots in my aunt and uncles home.
(**Note: this trip also includes stories of father wearing a feather boa, happy meals in a minivan full of adults, waking up in an art studio, having a hand catch my head before it hit the pillow, whiskey tasting, going public art spotting with a 4-year-old, a man in a striped spandex body suit, and a dog on valium, but more on all that later.)
The show included an installation of Brendan. It was a life-size figure of him, made from his clothing, with arms upstreched, and art and possesions surrounding him. I have yet to find the right words to describe the power of this piece. And it had tangible power, presence... the artist who created it had never met my brother but says he feels like he's gotten to know him. He spent time with him, he drank with him, he talked to him. Maybe all this energy, the power, some how took residence in this beautiful corner where Brendan is on display, because it is undeniable. Everyone who knew him was speechless (for a moment; my family doesn't stay quiet for long) and even those who didn't remarked upon the power of this piece.
Contrary to what I had worried, this week is actually ideal for me to give my presentation on Brendan to my grief group. All weekend was literally a celebration of him and what he loved, and it was fun. I am incredibly lucky to have the family that I do, and every time there is a gathering it is reinforced. I cannot think of one thing that I would have changed, other than having it last longer and having a couple family members that couldn't make it be able to. There was lots and lots of art, beer, conversation, meeting other artists, food. And Brendan was there. At moments I felt the incredible pain of his physical absence, but I was able to look around me and see an amazing legacy. This doesn't make it better, but it means that I will survive and that people will not forget, and that is everything.
As I talk to eight other people in grief tonight about my huge little brother, the most important thing I can say is that he continues to inspire people. When I talk about the blonde troublesome loud baby who I loved more than anything, it is one and the same with the 6'7" loud artist who became a legend for his style, talent, and persistence.
I was nervous about doing the presentation this week because I was in Kansas City last Thursday through Monday to be at an opening of an art show in honor of Brendan. My aunt, an artist, wife, and mother of two young children, put together a show that spans two galleries, includes artists from multiple cities and genres, and whose opening included several live music performers, fire jugglers, mimes, tightrope walkers, acrobats, live art, and one hell of an after-party. There was something around 30 of our family around for this opening (I'm including a horde of artists from Chicago that made the trip in this number), and most of us were sleeping at various spots in my aunt and uncles home.
(**Note: this trip also includes stories of father wearing a feather boa, happy meals in a minivan full of adults, waking up in an art studio, having a hand catch my head before it hit the pillow, whiskey tasting, going public art spotting with a 4-year-old, a man in a striped spandex body suit, and a dog on valium, but more on all that later.)
The show included an installation of Brendan. It was a life-size figure of him, made from his clothing, with arms upstreched, and art and possesions surrounding him. I have yet to find the right words to describe the power of this piece. And it had tangible power, presence... the artist who created it had never met my brother but says he feels like he's gotten to know him. He spent time with him, he drank with him, he talked to him. Maybe all this energy, the power, some how took residence in this beautiful corner where Brendan is on display, because it is undeniable. Everyone who knew him was speechless (for a moment; my family doesn't stay quiet for long) and even those who didn't remarked upon the power of this piece.
Contrary to what I had worried, this week is actually ideal for me to give my presentation on Brendan to my grief group. All weekend was literally a celebration of him and what he loved, and it was fun. I am incredibly lucky to have the family that I do, and every time there is a gathering it is reinforced. I cannot think of one thing that I would have changed, other than having it last longer and having a couple family members that couldn't make it be able to. There was lots and lots of art, beer, conversation, meeting other artists, food. And Brendan was there. At moments I felt the incredible pain of his physical absence, but I was able to look around me and see an amazing legacy. This doesn't make it better, but it means that I will survive and that people will not forget, and that is everything.
As I talk to eight other people in grief tonight about my huge little brother, the most important thing I can say is that he continues to inspire people. When I talk about the blonde troublesome loud baby who I loved more than anything, it is one and the same with the 6'7" loud artist who became a legend for his style, talent, and persistence.
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