Yesterday my friend Audrey gave me a crocheting lesson. My mom once taught me to make a basic chain, but I never absorbed the lecture on turning around—so I was doomed to spend eternity weaving one continuous strand of yarn. Thanks to Audrey, now I can turn around and do a double stitch for double the fun! (I still refuse to count my stitches. Counting will never be a part of any hobby I take up.) Like most valuable skills, learning this one came with its share of cursing, yelling and bleeding. That’s just what happens when you try to keep two cats away from miles of colorful moving string.  

After dinner Audrey said to me, “You are a crazy cat lady. You have two cats. That’s more than one cat. That makes you a cat lady.” Well, fine. I can’t argue with that logic. But it’s either talking to the cats or talking to myself, and I think the second is slightly more disturbing. Anyway, lots of writers and painters have a thing for cats. Hemingway, Gertrude Abercrombie, Pierre Bonnard (inspiration for my only piece of artwork featuring a cat), my poet friend Cole, Professor John Dilg…the list goes on.

Terrible images of disgustingly sweet kittens wearing big pink ribbons are easy to find--I’m thinking Umbridge’s office in Hogwarts. However, there were some legit artists who specialized in cats. Ever seen the yellow poster with the spiky black cat and the text, “Tournee du Chat Noir”? It’s by Theophile Steinlen, a prolific painter, sculptor and printmaker.

Louis Wain, though he was guilty of a few of his own excessively adorable cat paintings, created some deviously personified kitties. Diagnosed with schizophrenia (which, let’s just be clear, had no connection to his fondness for felines), Wain painted intriguing cat portraits to illustrate the way the illness made him feel.

Now, not only can you make art about cats, you can use live cats as art. Stacking stuff on sleeping cats is a challenging new form of sculpture. Photographers and witty captioneers are also benefiting from the cat genre.

Same goes for cat video voiceover-ists.

So yes, I have two cats. That's more than one cat, and that's fine with me.

In 1930, Grant Wood sketched a little white house in Eldon, Iowa and made a painting more famous than… umm, I'm not at work. But here I am blogging from inside the American Gothic House. While Beth is in Chicago passing out free slices of pie for National Pie Day (at Soldier Field, this Sunday… is she insane?),
I’m sitting in her chair, at her desk, with her dogs munching on their dinner at my feet. My disc drive is humming away, importing selections from her vast CD collection that I couldn’t wait to get my fingers on—Tom Waits, Coldplay, Michael Buble, Joni Mitchell, Scala (an all girls a capella group that covers classics like U2’s With or Without You), and some really old Third Eye Blind. I’m even branching into the slightly unknown with a couple of instrumental albums, Buddha Bar, and CDs titled Bellydance Superstars and Salsa Around the World. Hey, I have that Dancing with the Stars workout video with the salsa section. This could inspire me to use it. And maybe become a little less clumsy.

At my right hand is a glass Aldi’s finest red wine, courtesy of Beth’s obsession with the German grocery store. The tub, featured in a recent painting (which, as a matter of fact, is hanging in her bathroom), is gently calling my name. As I walked over here after work I flashed back to my days as a babysitter. What’s more exciting than being in charge of someone else’s kids? Being in charge of their HOUSE! And what’s the first thing you do? RAID THE KITCHEN! Beth, I just want to say: I can’t believe you left me alone with a box full of those dark chocolate stars.

Beth is generous to a fault. While she is broadening my musical wisdom-osity with her taste, and giving me blog love, and bringing me lattes during long winter days at work, she’s also giving me real life love. She moved into the American Gothic House shortly after I started work at the Center, and as the two new girls in town we immediately bonded. She has taken risks that awe me, traveling and living all over the world, leading a life of true courage. I read somewhere that a happy heart is one that still feels pain. This describes her perfectly. She has a huge heart, and despite the traumas she’s endured she doesn't hesitate to share all the love she has brimming from it.

We exchange the occasional hug (Human contact: One thing I’m seriously lacking in my life as an independent young woman.) and more importantly, we exchange daily discussion. I don’t mean “Hey neighbor, how’s the weather?” talk. I mean life altering, follow your dreams, heartbreaking conversations that keep me coming back to work day after day. It’s impossible not to connect with her raw honesty, her sarcasm, and her go-getter attitude.

Anyway, I didn’t intend to gush in this post. I suppose I should get to the point. The most recent gift I received from my new friend (besides one night of free reign over her CD collection) is her guitar! She offered to let me borrow it last weekend, after I confessed I’d spent the morning searching for one online.

I’ve been enthralled by string instruments for years. I can’t remember how long ago I fell in love with the upright bass, which lead to falling in love with a bass guitar player, which lead to many musical discoveries. A few years ago I decided I wanted to tackle the acoustic guitar. I’m finally getting around to it, and the fingers of my left hand can attest to my exuberance.  I don’t remember ever being this excited to practice for my piano lesson or get up for 7 am marching band.

I’ll never claim to be an expert listener or flaunt my musical taste. What I will say is that there are a few voices, a few songs I could repeat word for word, bar for bar. Lots of them have sunk into my brain while I was distracted, engrossed in brush-to-canvas action. You name a band, I’ll name an art project.

Spoon = Darkroom. Intro to photo with John Freyer: Frustration, triumph, and more frustration, but always excitement about what might come out when the fixer was fixed.

Radiohead’s In Rainbows—I smell turpenoid! Nasty crap in a green tin we were forced to use during Painting I in the now flooded ABW.

Weezer’s Blue Album: Painting of the 1878 Steinway Grand in Old Capitol Museum’s senate chamber.

Horse Feathers: Instant Art Farm.

There are others, of course; the list could go on forever. And then there are the bands that remind me of absolutely nothing. They’re completely mine. I don’t have to give in to some overpowering memory when I tune in. Blink-182 (my very first obsession), Jack’s Mannequin’s Everything in Transit, anything Jack Johnson, Vampire Weekend, Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes, or MGMT. Oh, MGMT. Electric Feel. I cannot be held responsible for the way I move when I hear those familiar chords. In fact, since I’m home alone, I better turn it on.

Four nights ago I found a voicemail blinking on my phone. I couldn’t keep from smiling when I heard the slight southern drawl of my first art teacher, George Killian. He was calling from Virginia, reminded of me by a new waitress at a favorite diner. Mr. Killian (who insists I call him George, but I really can’t) looked over my shoulder for most of my teenage years. “Draw what you see, not what you know,” he would say as he turned my drawings upside down, forcing my eyes to overpower my brain. (What bliss!)

For 40 minutes every day I got to forget everything outside his classroom. It smelled like so many projects I wanted to plunge my hands into—damp clay, turpentine, gesso, sawdust, fumes from soldering stained glass. While his invariable claim was that whatever I was making wasn’t finished yet, it was his encouragement that helped me decide to continue to study art. I effortlessly soaked up facts in American Government, spilled out speeches in English, and picked apart the insides of a fetal pig with freakish zeal. But making art was the only thing that quieted my mind, and it still is. I was sensible, I wanted stability, and I thought of college as preparation for a degree, which would result in a job, which would result in making money. I would have followed that route if he hadn’t repeatedly pulled me aside and insisted I could paint instead.

Skip ahead a few years to find me having some serious doubts about that choice. A senior in a level II painting class, I considered calling it quits. I had almost started to define myself as a painter, and was wrestling with the thought that maybe I wasn’t fit to be called one. I asked John, a soft-spoken professor who had agreed to advise my senior project, for a meeting. I’ll never forget what he said, because it came as such a shock. “You know I’ve always taken a special interest in your work.”

I almost laughed, but I did keep going. It was that support which pushed me through my final semester—hours upon hours every week alone in the studio, listening to Jack Johnson and Modest Mouse, still finding calm in the smell of turpentine and pencil shavings. John told me about the Grinnell Artist Residency, where I applied and spent a month that sealed my decision to pursue an MFA. He invited me into his studio, where he introduced me to his cat and, get this, let me PAINT ON HIS CANVAS. (About 15 of his canvasses, I think, but that’s another story.)

I never considered teaching, but lately it seems like the best possible way to go forward. Now, as I research grad programs and continue to work, these two are still writing and calling and offering their insights. Without John Dilg and George Killian, I would have called painting a hobby and done it in a basement in my retirement. That probably wouldn’t be a loss to the rest of the world, but it would certainly have changed things for me. If I can encourage or even inspire someone else to keep painting, then that's exactly what I want to do. There's no better way to give back, and no better gift than the courage to pursue happiness.

Last night I dreamt my apartment was beautiful. The bathroom had a deep, wide bathtub set into the floor. The walls were covered with decorated mirrors and rococo chandeliers hung from the ceilings. There was room, after room, after room. I explored each, awed by the exquisite eccentricity I had never noticed.

Then, I started to see the doors. And the holes. There were doors everywhere, doors without locks, doors with holes where the knobs should have been. Holes in the walls of the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen, holes in the walls looking into the apartments of other people. I began to realize I wasn’t safe here, and to question my memories of life in the apartment. Had anyone crept in and stolen things? Who were these strangers I lived with? Were they eating my food? Why wasn’t I aware of all these HOLES?!

In reality, my apartment is pretty unique. It’s one of four in a divided house, built over 100 years ago. I don’t live in (nor will I ever) a cookie cutter set of rooms exactly like 10 others.  My apartment has studio space, cats, and a reading chair with a fluffy rug. I did find a mysterious hole once, behind the dryer, but I covered it up with a paper plate and some duct tape.

(click to enlarge images)

So what prompted this pretty dream turned dreadful? If you knew me well, you’d know I rarely close my eyes without having a nightmare. Last Christmas my sister bought me a book with 20,000 dream definitions, which I consult occasionally for a bit of insight. It’s not that I take these words as fact, but it’s interesting to find out how Freud or Jung would analyze my subconscious.

I’ll spare you the text and sum up the way the book allows me to interpret this dream—which is actually similar to how I interpret my paintings of homes.

The home equals me, my mind, my life. The bathroom, which I recall in such detail, represents my “instinctual urges,” and dreaming of it says I'm experiencing  oppressive feelings which need to be released. That makes sense. Denying urges only makes them stronger, right?

Doors obviously mean options, and facing a confusing number of doors says life’s choices are overwhelming. Broken doors indicate vulnerability or lack of privacy, and inability to maintain boundaries. Check, check, check.

The vulnerability theme is common for my sleeping mind. For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamt of broken locks and physical struggles to keep bad men from getting inside my home or hurting my family. Things usually get violent, and often my teeth are involved. Dreaming Molly has repeatedly lost teeth to punches in the face, but give her some credit—she has used them to fight back. One particularly vivid nightmare (please don’t call the psych ward) involved me biting off the pinky of a man trying to pry his way into my car—it was quite comparable to biting through a baby carrot.

In these dreams, when I notice my teeth are loose or crumbling, everyone seems to think it’s just fine. I can be bleeding profusely and holding all my teeth in my hands and still have to find my own damn dentist. The dentists I do get to help always stitch my teeth back in the wrong places, molars in front and canines in back.

The book gives plenty of advice on losing teeth. Insecurity, inadequacy, the need to admit a secret in waking life, big changes or losses and damage to beliefs, blah blah blah.

I'm learning to be patient. I have to be. Changes can't happen as quickly as I'd like them to, and that's probably a good thing. However, paintings can happen as quickly and as often as I want. Eat that, nightmares.

New Year's Eve is disappointing. Whose idea was it to televise the ball dropping while people scream and happy couples make out? Anyone actually watching the event can't possibly be enjoying themselves, in front of their TV, as much as those in Times Square. I can't remember a single NYE that had any remarkable characteristics. In fact, I can barely recall any specific December 31sts at all. The beginning of this year was no different.

I spent the last day of 2010 at my mom's, having a Harry Potter marathon with my sister and baking a loaf of turtle shaped bread. I did manage to get out of the house for about two hours, and when the anticlimactic change of years occurred I was blissfully unaware (probably distracted by the terrible karaoke happening at the local bar).

I was about to leave town today when I got a text from my oldest friend. "2nd of the year and I'm crying in my office...good start. I hope you have better luck." Since seven minutes into 2011 found me tearfully driving home and crawling into bed with my mom, I could relate. But mourning the turbulence of 2010 isn't helping my outlook for the next 365 days, so here's a reflection on the most important lessons from the past year that I'll take with me.

1. Trust my instincts. My post-graduation plan was to spend the next 10 years living in 5 different places, so while I was excited at the prospect of a new job, I wasn't thrilled about moving one hour south of my home in IC and promising to spend 5 years working there.

Why did I choose this? Here comes my valiant attempt at assuaging regret...

...

...

Well, looks like the best answer I can come up with is fear. Fear of not finding a job, not being able to make payments on my student loans, and having to move home. Or maybe I could call it acting responsibly. Either way, I guess I have to forgive myself for that. Regret is not the way I want to move forward.

If I had given in to the tug of the thread, the one that seems to have one end attached to my gut and the west coast at the other, I would probably be having a rough time in a place even farther from the comfort of my family and friends. At least then I would know I was true to myself, following my own instincts. In the future, when I have an impulse this strong, I will not settle for anything else.

2. People are wonderfully unpredictable. During the past year, I've made lots of new friends and gotten closer with old ones. Struggling through drastic changes and the realities of life makes friendships stronger, and I've begun to really know how lucky I am to be surrounded by those I love (even if now they're spread across the country).

It's easy to shake hands and decide what you expect from a person. Except if you spend time learning about them, you'll surely come across something you didn't foresee. Like that one person can love The Beatles and also scary death metal. Or that someone who has chosen the hard facts of science as a profession gets swept away by the magic of Harry Potter.

Old friends are equally surprising. They may finally triumph where you watched them fail until it broke your heart, and you might rediscover the joy of a relationship you thought was lost. You could even find your sister willing to take on a crazy cross-country adventure you thought she'd reject (Emily, you rock). You will surely recognize a group of people who, though perhaps not present on a day-to-day basis, will come through when you need them most. And you'll find yourself doing the same for them.

3. Patience is a powerful tool. It's probably just part of growing up, but I've come to respect the power of patience. Any emotion I felt in the past was immediately acted upon--by either actually making a change or at least talking it through. I would dive in heart first at a moment's notice. It's not that the decisions I made were poor. I simply couldn't move on to the next thought until I'd worked out the last. Even if that meant getting out of bed in the middle of the night to make a phone call or do a Google search.

In the past year, I've learned the value of allowing time to pass. Letting an idea simmer for days or weeks before acting is still challenging, but I'm improving. In part, I was forced to learn this patience because things just can't happen at the speeds they used to (ie, my worries are no longer about dropping a class or switching shifts at work). Mostly, though, I learned enough about myself to recognize that I will always benefit from taking more time to process than my impulses would have me believe.

4. If you look, you'll find something worthwhile in every single day. On NYE, I opened a bottle of wine and poured 3 glasses. My sister, mother and I toasted to the new year and, just for laughs, decided to give each other resolutions. My mom advised my sister to be more adventurous (hello, roadtrip), and her words for me were classic. "I wish you would realize that life is the journey, not the destination. You're going to miss it because you're always wishing for the next thing."

Okay, Mom, consider yourself heard. It's no secret that my restlessness is taking its toll. In order to make it through the day, I have to focus on every present moment. The simple pleasure in a warm mug of tea. The strength of my muscles moving my body from plank position to up-dog. A chat with a neighbor. The sunrise, roadkill, general dissatisfaction, or any of those other things that make me cry. Let's be honest. Paying attention to the journey includes appreciating all feelings--not just the good ones.

So, 2011, as we meet, I wish to remember something about each of your days. And I promise to be honest with myself all 365.