Once upon a time, I used to be a dental student! I did, I really did. I was so proud of myself: I had this great routine where I never had to figure out what I’d wear the next day, because I owned an endless supply of antique green surgical scrubs. And they were SO comfortable, like a pair of pajamas, that I often found myself sleeping in them with my books lying across my chest, the booklight still beaming down on me, my glasses resting on the arm of the sofa. At three in the morning, I’d have to turn on The Weather Channel just to have a chatty person to keep me company while I pored over flow charts and glossy Netter illustrations of nasal conchae, nerves, shiny pink mounds of taste buds.

On the first day of class, I sat in the front row, careful not to miss a detail. But with every day came another quiz or exam, so in no time I migrated towards the back of the classroom, where I was able to efficiently gather notes and vent stress by making fun of geeky professors along with the other juvenile students in my class. I could rest my feet on the back of the chair in front of me without being noticed, and eat the rest of my egg McMuffin and orange juice, or study for the next exam.

In gross anatomy, we were assigned a woman in her mid-seventies. Her lungs were matte and moldy black from years of smoking. Her withered terrain made me sad and her cross-section was so yellow with fat that I couldn’t eat enchiladas for the entire year. For weeks I tried masking the smell of formaldehyde with Vicks Vap-O-Rub, but it left my nose chilled and my chest filled with a heavy ghost of tank juice (which is what I called the bath). By the end of the year I’d resigned to the smell of gross lab, because there was little time to fret over odors during finals.

In this hilarious and surreal picture above you see me posing, as if I were about to grind the surface of a tooth down with a huge burr. We were clowning around that day and I think this was a halfass attempt to be amusing. I look possessed. What do you think?

When I transferred to California (University of the Pacific) during my second year, I suddenly felt at a crossroads where dental school, and all the rigidity it imposed on me, represented a dead-end road. So, to sum up an emotional month or two that followed: I quit. And I haven’t looked back.
…But I would like to know where I put all those probes and scraping tools, because they’d come in handy right now with the encaustic painting!

Enjoy more Self Portrait Challenge.

I’ve never seen a bear do this in the wild. In fact, I’ve never seen a bear in the wild. For that matter, I’ve never seen a wild beehive, either. But I’ve read The Story of Pooh many times before. This is exactly what I believe bears should be doing all the time: raiding beehives and foraging blackberries and slapping salmon out of the water. Of course, bears eat what they can, because honey and blackberries and salmon aren’t always in supply. Have you seen Grizzly Man?

More Illlustration Friday.

There’s a Storm Trooper maintaining his aquatic fleet.
Waiting for Chas to finish napping so we can go out to play. These short, quiet little projects are sweet fillers in a day jammed with chaos, amped-up play and an onslaught of noise.

It’s difficult at first, resisting the urge to keep working, but in order to create a smooth surface texture on encaustic paintings, such as these, you have to wait at least two days for the top layer of wax to cure before you can buff it. And these have been stacked and waiting patiently on my windowsill for a week (which, incidentally, is not the best place to cure an encaustic painting in the middle of summer, but it’s somehow worked so far in my home–at any rate, it’s safer than leaving them on a countertop or table, where the kids can reach them!). Now, all I have to do (if I decide each is finished) is take a chamois and buff the surface smooth. The result is so buttery soft and shiny. I REALLY dig this medium. When I’m finished with thee, I’ll share more pictures….

More Studio Friday.

On bikes, we sailed past the footed caravan of quilts and igloos into Zilker park, where the symphony began playing William Tell overture. Chas clapped, mimicking the shiny brass cymbals on stage before him. When it began to rain, a crowd of families followed us under the Riverside bridge, and as we waited for the lighting to pass, floodlights illuminated wet spiderwebs along the handrails and the smoke from the cannon drifted through drizzle. A religious fanatic brayed like a jackass through a megaphone, but we escaped that, too, once the thunder abated: across the meadow we found the perfect place for firework-watching, and I stood grinning and wet in the rain as I watched Ford and Chas gape at the spectacular display. And when it was over, Ford was left completely devastated, sunken and slouching in disbelief. How could it ever end?! How dare they?! HIs reaction was so cute I could hardly stand it.

While I’m not happy about the fact that you watch Chicken Little three times a day on occasion, I can at least smile knowing it slowed you down enough for me to paint your portrait. Also, thank you for letting me paint again today while you watched the movie. Again. I’m trying to be the artist who can write a check for a trip to the Cascades so you can finally see Ranier and Hood and St. Helens in person. Because you are so so so worth it. And because I love you so so much. Well, I’d better get back to work. xoxo, Mom

Watching soccer on five plasma screen tvs at the same time. Drinking beer and eating fries with mayo (indeed) under the misting fans. There’s the modern dining experience. More SPC.

I haven’t had time yet to whip up some code for a gallery. All those sequestered wee hours are for indulgent painting and online furniture oggling. There was a time, about six years ago, when I’d have been golden just to poke around with a tangle of hypertext markup language all afternoon, sipping a gin and tonic on the balcony in the quiet, self-indulgent pause of life just before children. But those children, they showed themselves up and, well, here I am pilfering those last scraggly minutes of my day, trying to spin gold from little piles of straw. …By the way, that’s one of Ford’s favorite Grimm’s, which is funny because it was one of my favorites, too, growing up. Rumplestilksin is so greasy-good!

So, in lieu of a proper gallery, where I can tack up all my late-night progress notes, here’s a painting. It’s the wedding portrait that Tonya asked me to paint of her friends, Peter and Christy. It’s okay, I’ve been allowed to divulge it! But I still feel al little awkward in doing so. Anyway, Tonya’s springboard for me was the famous American Gothic. With that in mind, she sent me a few snapshots and some bio (the props in the picture hint at their interests). And do you know? It was FUN. And I hear they loved it. My work here is done. I couldn’t ask for a better way to put myself to good use. Well, except for the mothering part. That’s pretty fun, too.