We’re a little culture starved around here, snug within the benign mycelium of silicon valley. Granted, if I’d just know where to look around here, I’d find something interesting on exhibit. But the truth is that I’m just acheing to go to a fussy art museum where I can feel the music of terrazzo under my feet and experience air conditioning without a trace of retail and ride that fabulous chase from security guard to security guard, close behind Chas, always on the fringe of expulsion as he tries to weave fast arcs around freestanding sculptures. Art is, after all, mostly about the personal experience one has with the piece, and with Chas there is no exception. He loves sculpture, it FASCINATES him to discover giant colorful pillars shooting from the ground or brushed-steel geometry shining in the sun. OH! The joy! Must scream and run circles around them all!

There’s one exhibit in particular that I’m planning on taking them to see sometime soon, the Matisse exhibit at the SFMOMA. Ford is a collage guru and I figure it might provide a springboard for translating some of his 2D work into a new dimension; specifically, creating something 3-dimensional that his younger brother might be tempted to play with (especially if it’s made of paper or papier-mache). But again, really, I’m just sad that we haven’t been able to go for so long, for fear that we might die during the struggle to patiently corral our children politely through a quiet space for art.

I think it’s more important that they experience art from a very young age for several reasons. First, I think it’s fun for them to see how some people have translated emotions or themes into art. Secondly, I like for them to understand the value and purpose behind the art process. Thirdly, I want them to grow to respect the work of others as well as their own art, because the enduring value of art is that it has the power to change the future in many ways: it can alter a person’s perspective, create controversy, quiet a restless mind, you get the idea. Lastly, I want them to evolve quickly within the rigid confines of the art museum institution so that they naturally respect that paticular environment as they would a shrine, an that is mostly because I’d LIKE TO ENJOY THE MUSEUM, TOO.

So, this weekend I’ve requested we pay the MOMA a visit, take our chances, hope for the best. There’s a book I heard about that recommends certain tips for taking 5 year-olds and older children to the museum, How to talk to children about art: is the title. As an art teacher, I feel qualified enough to come up with my own suggestions (which, in all it’s conceit, is actually true) but I’m still curious about what it has to say and am ordering it anyway.

Wish us luck! Double that for the MOMA.

Wow, what a hiatus. I’ve taken another mental health month, this time following a hectic family visit, and I am beginning to feel much better now, thank you. Your sympathetic messages have been a sustaining force and the only reason, I have to admit, that I’m sitting here at the computer now. It’s one in the morning, I’ve been cutting fabric and thinking about the friends I’d like to keep, the ones like you whom I’ve met through this blog, who remind me that it’s okay. Just keep writing. Keep taking photos. Don’t say you’re forgetful. Move forward.
Thank you.

So here we are. I’m sure you wanted more details, but here we ARE:
and watch out!

Summer is here, so very here. Each afternoon the hot winds off the valley blow through the garden on the way to Santa Cruz or wherever they go. Judging by the weary droop of the Lady’s Mantle, the Huecheras, the zucchini—I’d say an inch or two more compost would buffer tender roots from heatstroke. But the deer lop it all off and solve the problem instantly. Genius! Here’s Chas, clearly offended by the marauding:

The deer. The wait until the tomatoes have sprung three tall feet and sprouted yellow flowers along the vine like christmas lights. Then they mow down the vines and pluck the hard green tomatoes, dropping them to the ground to rot at the bitemarks:

But the evening, it’s so summery. In the city, I have to wear fleece to dinner. In my backyard, however, I wear a tank top and feel nothing as the evening blues. The quail, scampering down along the fenceline, shepherd a new clutch of chicks. There must be twenty! I can’t see details without my glasses, but my eyes register fleeting puffs of down, left, right, then left, and the parents zig left then right, alerting the other of the dog by my side. Seti, mouthwatering, tenses and tracks their path.

When I water the zuchinni, it sounds like the heavy rain that I haven’t heard in months. A few weeks ago, the water pattered the mulch and the seedlings bowed under strain. Today, tall and turgid, the large uneaten leaves bat back at the downpour, an audible splattering, a hollow summer sound that I miss from Texas (and everywhere else I’ve lived in summers past, for that matter). I miss the moody days, shrouded in gray clouds, rain that evaporated off hot concrete, lightening that awoke a summer midnight. Puddles. Rainbows. Clouds.

Oh, screw it. Sunny days and starry nights rock!