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.

December 1, 2010—five years since my littlest sister was born. This time of year makes me nostalgic. I smell snow, wood smoke, scents from the previous winter on my long brown coat. I look forward to snuggling in, lighting candles in my broken fireplace, watching the wind from the floor to ceiling windows in my apartment. (Which is great in theory, but a broken fireplace and a wall of windows does not equal a warm or efficient living space.)

I daydream about my favorite places.

Bruges, Belgium. May of 2009. The Belgians know what’s up—chocolate with breakfast, hundreds of beers in the bars, and three official languages (none of which are English). A French fry museum, waffles sold by street vendors, and just in case you’d rather be elsewhere, an Irish pub serving hard cider. Oh, and then there are the canals. No big deal.

My bedroom in Urbandale.  I was able to fund my trip to the U.K. because I spent a semester interning full time at the Des Moines Art Center, and living rent free with a wonderful couple who were basically strangers before I arrived.  A few of weeks ago I went back to see my adopted aunt and uncle. Played pool on the table in the basement while Bob had a cigarette, browsed books Sandi strategically left out for me. When I climbed the stairs to go to sleep that night, I realized there was a big dumb grin on my face. I was happy to be home.

Portland, OR. On spring break, I drove 36 hours through a variety of weathers and 8 states to spend two days in Portland. Say what you will about the city’s rain, I still can’t get over the moss growing on every possible surface. Portland’s got mountains on one side, ocean on the other, and waterfalls connecting the two. There’s no better way to get a grip on life than realizing you’re an insignificant speck among the absolute freakin’ beauty of nature.

The Art Farm! Easily the most worthwhile month of my life, and probably the reason having a full-time job is so unappealing. In addition to painting, this month consisted of crazy amounts of ice cream, absolutely no structure, and unlimited access to warm raspberries. I had to steal these photos from the other residents (thanks guys!).

It wasn’t until my last year there that I really started to appreciate Iowa City. Due in part, of course, to my quirky Old Capitol coworkers. You never know what kind of people you’re going to find working a museum. Wait, I take that back. You know exactly what kind of people you're going to find. You just have to be one to appreciate it.

My home sweet home and the home of two of the coolest people I know: My mom, now an empty nester, and my sister Emily, a student at UNI.  I thought moving to another small town in Iowa would be just like going home, and in some ways it is. But mostly, it isn’t. It’s not the same as being surrounded by people who probably changed your diapers, or your parents’ diapers, or people whose diapers you changed. The Des Moines River, which is one of Eldon’s borders, is far from the Mississippi. There is no Pup Hut, where I sweated my ass off for six dreadfully hot summers. And mainly, there’s no mom or sister to bike laps around town with me!

At some point, in some order, I plan to spend more time in all of these places. A day, a month, a year or twenty, with lots of travel and life and energy in between. As Beth keeps telling me, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE! And now, if possible, I'll take some sleep please!

Might as well start off by spilling the beans, eh? Isn't that what blogging is all about? So here's a summary of my most recent series (and some of my biggest personal obstacles), completed during the summer in Grinnell.

This was a self-help project. I graduated from college with a degree in art (now what do I do?), I broke up with my serious boyfriend rather than marrying him, and I finally started dealing with my own issues instead of distracting myself from them. I wanted to be independent, self sufficient, and more me--who is that, anyway? I needed to prove that I was more than just half of a whole, more than just a student (which was how I defined myself for all of my memorable life) and more than a result of my circumstances or my genetics.  So I spent a month on a farm in the middle of nowhere, with six wonderful artists I had never met, and attempted to work some of that out with my paintbrush.

Shutze Dieses Haus

In my memory of her house, my grandma had a sign above the door which I could not read. Turns out this sign was just written in an old English typeface, but to little girl Molly it seemed like another language. I think it read something like the title of this painting, which can be translated as bless or protect this house. I am German from all angles, so to me this is a sort of family crest. The home contains the family; it is the family, with all its differences and similarities, its securities and boundaries, support and judgment. The family lifts you, it gives air and food and life, it raises you and envelopes your failures and successes. Within this painting are all the scenes examined more closely in the following work. This home, this family, shaped what is to come—yet there is life past the windows and doors, and chances for more change and growth.

This painting was my first at the Grinnell Artist Residency. It contains bits of that environment, absorbed into colors and forms. Thick yellow curtains covered the enormous window in my shared bedroom. The shape of a curled mustache, warm mugs of coffee and tea, and the hours spent outside on green lawn chairs all crept their way into the composition. I can practically smell American Spirits when I look at it!

The Tradition

Tables and dining rooms are built to encourage interaction, celebration, and sociability. Such pleasant occasions can turn volatile, especially when families reunite. The table is the tradition, the chairs are the family; the cake is the family and the piece is you, it’s me. You versus your family, me versus mine. We are undeniably similar to family, yet obviously different. The family supports, but it can be the harshest judge.  It feeds you, but it eats at you, too. Instinctual love combats frustration.  It is bigger than you, you are part of it, and you cannot separate yourself. Most of your bonds within the family and similarities to its members make you stronger, but some bring weakness. I love my family, but I struggle to accept its weaknesses and to simultaneously reject those weaknesses in myself.

The Escape

“It may have been a warning. It may also have been a burden. Even if love was "underneath it all," there was a great deal piled on top, and what would you find when you dug down? Not a simple gift, pure and shining; instead, something ancient and possibly baneful, like an iron charm rusting among old bones. A talisman of sorts, this love, but a heavy one; a heavy thing for me to carry around with me, slung on its iron chain around my neck.”  -Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin 

In the first painting, not all details are revealed. There is tension between the two green chairs leaning into the curved white couch, the lamp as a panicked referee attempts to sort out the disagreement. A closer look reveals this strain actually follows intimacy—in the form of a passionately discarded tie. Spaces full of pain and anger were always once inhabited by love and devotion, which raises the question—what happened here? Where did this affair go wrong?

Because now the tie escapes. The man crawls away. Is he sneaking out slyly while she sleeps or looks the other way? Or did she forget him, take him for granted, leave him in the dark and dust to show himself out? How long can a tie stay that way, swept under the furniture, before it must go? Before the tension above becomes too overwhelming and the passion below evaporates?

The Constant

“And since then I have thought, why is it that women have chosen to sew such flags, and then to lay them on the tops of beds? For they make a bed the most noticeable thing in the room. And then I have thought, it’s for a warning.  Because you may think a bed is a peaceful thing, Sir, and to you it may mean rest and comfort and a good night’s sleep. But it isn’t so for everyone; and there are many dangerous things which may take place in a bed. It is where we are born, and that is our first peril in life; and it is where women give birth, which is often their last. And it is where the act takes place between men and women that I will not mention to you, Sir, but I suppose you know what it is; and some call it love, and others despair, or else merely an indignity which they must suffer through. And finally beds are what we sleep in, and where we dream, and often where we die.”  --Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace (Yes, I love her books. They're just so relevant to my work!)

The bed is you, it’s me. It’s where you let yourself completely relax; it’s the most intimate place. It’s where you become unconscious and where you dream. You keep your dearest and most necessary things close to it. It’s where you lay awake, thinking and listening. It is one place you never have to censor yourself. It’s almost completely internal. Choosing to share your bed is choosing to share yourself. You are it. You must be your own constant; you must create your own stability and your own safe sleeping place, where you can take care of you.

The Release

This painting is a reminder to inhale deeply. My chest is a vast, empty blue sky.

The cage is fragile, barely balanced, and inside it I am tense with the pressure of holding still, breath shallow, clamped tightly to my perch. If I make too great a movement, the cage may tip--safe space shattered.

The cage door was always unlocked. I decide to pass through it; decide to trust that leaving may not mean the end of safety or support. I try not to bring along the things that travel in a dark, heavy suitcase. Pack them up and leave them on the ground. Let them go and go away! Only take the things which function as balloons, making me lighter instead of heavier.

I can move beyond the tradition, the escape, the protection of the family, and be my own constant. Create a new safe space between my shoulders and crown. Lean over and fall, and feel the freedom from gravity. My chest is a vast, empty blue sky.