My past, in paint

Perhaps I’ve been a tad distracted over the years, on some sort of blind mission to find myself, but it recently occurred to me I have paintings no one’s seen. Seems I began writing, jumped in the Pondering Pool and never looked back. I’m now on the precipice of a colossal evolution – every bit of the creativity, knowledge, and experience I’ve garnered thus far is in the boardroom haggling over new possibilities, duking it out for center stage. Damned if I’m getting in the middle of that! Instead, I thought I’d bolster the opposite end of the process – letting go – by releasing some of my unseen paintings for sale, several of which date back to the early nineties when I was still studying with my mentor, Lillias Apland.

A shortish, square-bodied, young-hearted, otherworldly soul, Lillias was a consummate artist and teacher. She literally breathed art until the moment she passed at age 93. She thoroughly appreciated my odd images and was often giddy watching me bring them to life. Still, at times I was a realist, not in my mind, but on canvas. In fact, I was amazed by my ability to paint convincing portraits. That shouldn’t have been a surprise – people fascinate the hell out of me, which made it easy to step inside and feel my way toward a likeness.

The paintings I created while with Lillias provided the foundation for everything that’s come since including writing, sculpting, videos, etc.

It’s remarkable what can be gleaned by reviewing one’s early works. With a deep appreciation for my then whereabouts, I offer you my past, in paint. (I’m also offering good prices, as it’s time to clear my studio for incoming.)

If you’d like to see more of my work please visit: https://www.ponderingpool.com/Art/landingpage.html

 


Sleep interrupted
– oil on masonite – 30 x 20
This is my niece, Taylor, in the middle of the night trying to quench a powerful thirst.
Indeed my favorite portrait because of the subject.

I barely finished Sleep interrupted in 1993, when it was sent off to the Oil Painters of America show…where it sold.  I typically get to spend time with a piece when it’s complete – I was especially disappointed being unable to spend time with Taylor.  She remained in a private collection for over 20 years.  The owners have since passed and the painting is once again on the market through Metier Galleries for $15,000 or best offer. You can check it out at: https://www.ebay.com/itm/Susan-Mrosek-My-Niece-with-Lemonade-Oil-Painting-on-Board-/201965828637.

Yes, they titled it differently.  Mine’s the real one.

 


Corrine – oil on masonite – 21.5 x 20
$1550
A good friend’s daughter and a beautiful subject whom I painted several times.

 


Elaine – oil on masonite – 18 x 14
$1300
A friend and a favorite subject of my sister, Toby, who’s also a painter.
I’ll have to share her work with you.  It’s incredible!

 


Karen
– oil on canvas – 24 x 18
$1250
Karen’s also my niece, by marriage.  Another beautiful subject, her
coloring, eyes, mouth…need I go on?

 


My Bella – oil on masonite – 30 x 18
$3000
This delightful woman was among my mother’s very old black and white photos
yet no one could identify her. While contemplating her title,
her look struck me as familiar. It reminded me of a woman in a piece I wrote,
though she’s not quite as disturbed. Still the name felt appropriate. Here’s an excerpt:

She glares at me as if I’ve eaten her goat!  Does she expect a refund?!  My sick, twisted Bella.  She treats me like a mad child’s toy.  Enough my Bella, enough!


I LOVE my company

For those who enjoy playing alone to those who haven’t yet tried it, I offer a little story and video.

 

Erwin and Marilee

Erwin was a fellow who stapled three sheets to the wind each evening before going home to his empty house, whereupon entry, the silence was deafening.  He’d predicate his homecoming on promises to engage in a quick, non-threatening conversation with himself, nothing too invasive, just a little complementary repartee.  If that went well, he’d settle into a longer, more interesting exchange over dinner, then reward himself with a favorite TV show or book before bed.  This wasn’t easy for dear Erwin, who had never learned how to enjoy the pleasure of his own company.

Unlike Erwin, Marilee’s nature mimicked her name.  She, indeed, went about her life merrily, in and out of the company of her family and friends.  She engaged in full, drama-length stage shows expressed in her living room, playing all the characters at once, talking over herself until overtaken by laughs, she lay sprawled on the floor glowing with the pleasure of her own company.

I realize Erwin and Marilee are extreme examples and that you’ll likely fall somewhere in between.  And it’s good to fall, especially into your own lap, face up, laughing like there’s no tomorrow, because you never know.  So let’s make the best of it.

Videos. Who? Me? No.

One day, prompted by an urgency to play, I grabbed my video camera and waltzed into my studio, dead set on becoming a star!  Oh how I lie. In fact, I’ve never longed to be in the spotlight, nor any spot that might remotely draw attention. So don’t ask me why, in God’s name, I began making videos of myself reciting odd little writings smack dab in the middle of my studio, before an unforgiving camera that is now filled with enough footage to blackmail me and the characters I rode in on. Yet I must confess, it’s almost embarrassing how much fun I’ve had.

Still, recording the videos was one thing, watching them, another. After the initial horror, displeasure, then acceptance of seeing and hearing myself on-screen, I became intrigued, and marveled at the way I’d broken my silence – acted out instead of in.

It’s known that sharing one’s creations is as important as creating them. That must explain my compulsion to out these videos. Thus far, the fun is outweighing the potential humiliation.

Never did I think I’d have the audacity to take center stage, even alone, safe in the confines of my studio. Clearly anyone can do anything. What is it you’ve got wrapped so tight it’s unable to breathe? I’d love to hear about it.

On with the show.  (The words are below the video.)

 

Stone Face

Well I dragged into my apartment after an especially long day and all I could hear was the rug – something about leaves, flowers and footprints.  I didn’t know what it meant, and it was makin’ me nervous.  So I stepped around the chaos to my jerry-rigged bar and I fixed myself a drink, on the rocks, a perfect complement to the stone face I’d been wearin’ all day.  What was gettin’ me down?!

OCD – A Relentless, Cunning Perpetrator


“It wrangles you. It’s a control freak, gripping and merciless. Fearful you may forget it, it never leaves you alone. Not for a minute. It hops in the driver’s seat before you’ve had a chance to get into the car and sits there laughing as you try every which way, including sideways, to get in. You scream, “Move over! This is MY life!” but it’s already got you pinching every loaf of bread and counting the number of cracks in Safeway’s floor, down on your knees, everyone staring. So you make it a joke or like you dropped something, but they can tell when you try to stand and can’t remember how, that something’s wrong. You’re up and down and up and down trying to make it feel right and soon people start offering you fearful glances and a wide berth. Realizing you’re in it for the duration, you slap on your worn out sign, “IT’S NOT ME, IT’S MY OCD.” If only they knew what that meant.”

OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) is a relentless, cunning perpetrator. The physical and emotional energy it takes to combat nonstop, intrusive obsessions and compulsions is monumental and often totally debilitating. One of the most hurtful sidebars for my sister, Diane Hope, who agonizingly wrestled with severe OCD, was the fact it isn’t recognizable with the naked eye, therefore her inability to function simply made her appear crazy, to some, even scary. In truth, she was the funniest, most brilliant, creative, compassionate person I’ve known.

I’m not implying her disorder was in the least bit enjoyable. However, because Diane was exceptionally funny, her coping mechanisms were wildly amusing and became a saving grace for her and the entire family.

The OCD was like a third, unwieldy leg that forever turned Diane the wrong direction. It made her uncomfortably stand out, yet it also supported her unique dance, and for that she was grateful. In time, her compulsions took center stage, inciting a full on theater production as she exaggerated, waltzed with, scolded, talked to, mimicked and tried to laugh away the impulses. True, some folks were put off by her, but I thrived in her presence. I loved the feeling of freedom that came from playing in her wake, like following her lead at midnight as she marched down the aisles of Walgreens, singing to the Muzak while arranging 15 neck pillows around and about her body because it felt good and she couldn’t stop. With Diane I could be out loud, I, the quiet one who refused to yell when I was mad and whose throat would slam shut if I tried to scream.

Though not technically (or even remotely) twins, Diane and I were symbiotic. I took on water, she’d spit it out; she’d forget to breathe, I’d inject a hurricane into her lungs. I cannot express how much fun we had, nor can I convey the extent of the pain.

“The damned double stick tape hadn’t lost its tack in all those years. It was supposed to be a joke. We alleged  that by trimming ourselves in adhesives, a myriad of lovely, exotic items might attach themselves and we’d end up looking like eccentric, old gypsies. But the only things that stuck were dog hair, Taylor’s gold stars, and the refrigerator magnets with freakish features. Instead of looking like gypsies, we just looked insane.”

Diane and her daughter, Taylor

Diane was broken yet so strong, the sparks that arose when she was momentarily aligned illuminated a great many fortunate people. It’s a tragedy when folks, out of fear, choose to navigate around those that appear abnormal or different, as they’ll never benefit from the gifts beyond their periphery.

At age 48, Diane discovered she’d had Hepatitis C for some 25 years. Four years later, the disease seriously kicked in, but because of the OCD, she was unable to attempt treatment – you had to be of sound mind in order to maintain and administer the very regimented therapy and even more stable to endure a liver transplant. Diane Hope passed away July 31, 2008 at age 56, due to liver failure, yet she maintained that no matter how life threatening the Hep C became, it was the OCD she couldn’t live with anymore.

My relationship with Diane was so textured, complex, dramatic, loving and hilarious it could fill a book, which, in fact, I’m writing. I’ll be posting bits and pieces on the blog as it progresses.

“A forget-her-not was attached to the sister’s forehead so people would stop and ask, and she’d forever be able to yak about the magical spark she called Hope.”
 

 

 

Resources

OCD is a serious anxiety disorder for which there is a variety of treatments. For more information, visit:

About Us


https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd/index.shtml

Hepatitis C isn’t always symptomatic, indeed many people are unaware they have the disease. However, if you do require treatment, the World Health Organization claims cure rates above 95% – greatly improved since Diane’s day. For more information, visit:

What are the Signs & Symptoms of Hepatitis C?


https://www.cdc.gov/hepatitis/hcv/cfaq.htm

 

 

One of My Favorite Toys

One of the most prized toys in my Playbox is my cousin Don, who’s old enough to be my father, yet in all the time I’ve known him he’s never grown up, even now, at 90. He’s the quintessential example of a person who has lived a life of play – well, he also worked, but that’s beside the point. Or maybe that IS the point. Despite working, he always made time for fun, and so we grew together, along that same path.

Truly, Don’s among the most creative people I know, as can be seen by stepping foot into his house full of toys, handmade jokes, and of course, art.

His style is whatever happens, happens – unpolished, imperfect and incredibly inventive.

He’s fabulous at capturing gestures…so graceful.

He nimbly morphs wire, clay, glass, paper, wood, useless whatnots, into utterly clever, comical, and unique statements.

I mentioned I’d like to make marionettes – he beat me to it.

Inspired by my bookworm, Don made one too. He even finished his.

Clearly I’m not the only one who loves his work.

We’ve played together a great deal over the years at his house on the beach, in his magical garage, where we’re forever kids having fun.

I periodically take immensely embarrassing pictures of myself for laughs and for family’s eyes only. Although everyone’s amused by them, Don has the audacity to display them proudly and prominently in his home. We’re sincerely each other’s biggest fans. The Playbox wouldn’t be complete without him. Here’s a little something I wrote about us.

Our Story

There once was a boy with a creative bean up his ass,
who never much cared whether the thing would pass,
yet when he moved to the beach and squatted in the sand,
the bean was squeezed out, and burrowed deep in the land,
providing a perfect place for the boy to play.

Along came a girl with a creative bean in her ear,
which made her lean in so she could better hear,
until one day she bent totally in half,
hence the bean fell out and rolled down her calf,
planting itself at her feet so every day she’d remember to play.

When boy met girl, a few years in,
damn if they weren’t introduced as kin.
From the onset they’d been sharing genes,
now they looked at each other and screamed,
“Hey! Matching beans!”

And so it went from that day on,
the girl named Soozer and the boy named Don,
were forever connected by their creative whims
his often comical, hers sporting odd limbs.

To each other they were a huge inspiration
always in awe of each other’s imagination.

If there was one thing they’d repeatedly say
it’s, “Damn we’re glad we were made this way.”