#100daysofart: The Past Twenty Days

I was convinced to join Twitter several years ago when away on a press trip in Beverton, Oregon. It was begrudgingly that I succumbed to these media savvy moguls, when insisted it was necessary to have a social media presence to be a professional force. I had quit Facebook voluntarily and cold turkey many years before, immediately following a break up - a choice that was absolutely right for me and one I would recommend for anyone who finds themselves in those unfortunate circumstances. When branding myself @beheardphoto and creating my Twitter handle I declared that I refused to ever tweet out what I was having for lunch or a selfie of my makeup for the day, as I found the 15 minutes everyone so desperately needed to be rather nauseating. That being said, I saw the benefit when traffic to my website would increase with a simple handful of characters thrown out into cyberspace.

Then came Instagram with it's simple symmetry and even simpler concept I felt, as a photographer, it seemed like an obvious marriage or marketing and visuals. I would document shoots in which I was partaking, or international travel. It was all part of the 'brand.'

The #100daysofartchallenge I chose to take on 67 days ago was a journey I embarked upon because I am in a place in my life where I will do anything to be happier, more centered, and healthier. I saw this as workout regime for my creative muscles. And that it has been. 

The task of creating something everyday has been a welcome challenge and I am actually pleased with a number of the results, glad that I am determined to create, whether or not the final product comes out the way I had envisioned before putting pen to paper. What I did not bargain for was the visual vulnerability I would be putting out there in a way I have tried to avoid by and large.

For a girl who refuses to put her likeness on the internet, I will write, in my travel logs, with true honesty. There is a nakedness in my words. For some reason, when looking at my oeuvre of work in this Instagram challenge, at least to this point, the literal illustration of the emotional journey over the past 20 days makes me feel more naked than any words I have ever written.  Without those chosen words revealing my inner most thoughts, fears and turmoil and rather, a visual representation, almost by accident, it is, for lack of a better word - scary. These things I am making, often with no conscious motive in my head, makes me feel very exposed, like that nightmare where you show up at high school naked. Uncomfortable to say the least. 

Now, I cannot complain about something I am willingly partaking in, but I can say this public therapy may very well be my last foray into social media. I am well aware that it is a useful tool for work, but for me I am not so sure it is a useful tool for life. That being said, I appreciate those who look, like and discuss my work and am glad to have embarked upon this journey. And I will most certainly enjoy ending it - at least publicly. 

Only 33 to go. My exact age - coincidence?

Day 48

Day 49

Day 50

Day 51

Day 52 

Day 53 

Day 54 

Day 55 

Day 56 

Day 57

Day 58

Day 59 

Day 60 

Day 61

Day 62

Day 63

Day 64

Day 65

Day 66

Day 67

#100daysofart: week 1, getting creative being creative

A week in and I can already feel the enormity of this self proposed challenge I have chosen to undertake.

While perusing the site for #100daysofart you can see many people chose themes, creating a selfie a day or a watercolor of a variety of landscapes - perhaps a wise move when stumped for your next potential project. I, on the other hand, being a Jedi warrior in the art of making things far more difficult than need be, chose simply to create with an open ended idea of what that meant. I wanted to make sure I utilized different forms and mediums and, in the process, stretch and strenghten my idea of what constitutes art.

A stop at my old familiar stomping grounds of the local art supply store not only brought me back to my younger days; days when my father purchased and set up a professional draft table in my childhood bedroom, giving me the proper tools to create Louvre-worthy portraits of Peter Pan and Mickey Mouse, but also those days from university where one was often faced with the choice between a chunk of premium charcoal or nutritionally balanced meal. Ah, the good ole days.

A few basics in my bag and I was ready to go and conquer.  

day 2

day 3

day 4

Day 1 had been an introduction to the whole project and allowed me to use my middle school level typography that I love so much. Day 2 lent itself to my doodle days and came almost effortlessly as I dragged pencil on paper and made a random yet consistent pattern. Day 3 and Day 4 I chose to go 3-D, decorating mugs (a long stranding tradition for me and a couple of other ladies) and making a collage about said father who purchased that draft table all those years ago. Neither my typical form of expression yet both uniquely satisfying in their creation and result.

day 5


Figuring a trip to the Getty Center on Day 5 would simply lend itself to my next work, I found I was a bit stumped and, as a professional photographer almost felt like I was cheating it when I grabbed a quick shot of beautful bougainvillea wrapped around iron rods in the garden. Not having used photography yet I felt I got a pass.

Then life kicked in, as it is wont to do. Meetings and commutes. Social commitments and time at the gym watching How I Met Your Mother reruns while on the elliptical began to fill every conceivable moment of my day and I knew that, with this only being the beginning, I would have to think outside the box to accomplish this goal. Literally.

day 6

I knew when publicly declaring my attempt to complete all 100 days of art, time management would play as big a role, if not bigger, than the ideas with which I needed to come up to make my art. Day 6 ended up being totally out of left field and a back up when a previous concept didn't look like it was so feasible. A found rubber ball with a black sharpie and white out can go a long way when in a pinch. Day 7 was going to be a painting but, when seated at a basketball game watching an antsy 8 year old desperately searching for ways to fill her time when her father was shooting 3-pointers, I figured part of the beauty of this project could be my ability to share art with others. With a good pad of paper and colored pencils at the ready, I thought, pretending the entire time that I was not at all concerned about the fact that I knew my pencils would be returned dull and out of chromatic order, why not offer this little girl a distraction from her youthful boundless energy and allow her to create what ended up being a great portrait of her daddy playing ball. Though she was not able to finish the picture before I had to leave (with my compromised pencils)  I was able to give her a moment of art and, create art by proxy. Though I did not document her work, I did manage to capture a shot of her creating her own masterpiece, lost in her own world of color and texture - a place we should all visit more often.

day 7 

day 8


Siblings are a curious thing. Two (or more) people, made from the same ingredients who turn out totally differently. My sister and I are no exception to this phenomenon and while I was born an artist, she was born a businesswoman. Her business is fashion and, while spending a day fondling fabrics and chatting over tea I saw the opportunity to make a face right there - at the Sunset Tower Hotel with table scraps of artichoke, peper and honey for Day 8. The lemon wedge to create a sunny smile was simply icing on the cake to a day with my very different, yet almost equally lovely sister and my first full week of #100daysofart.

Hopefully having worked out some kinks and warmed up some muscles, next week will bring new inspiration and new visual adventures. Wish me luck!

#100daysofart: creatively recharging one day at a time ...

I am an artist. 

It is just that simple.

I was born one and, when my parents encouraged me to create, express and go on to study the subject matter in the world of higher education, it became not only who I was on the inside, but who the world perceived me to be as well.

As adulthood weighs heavy on our shoulders and the responsibilities associated with building and blossoming into this You 2.0 dulls your senses, many of us let the artistry of childhood fall by the wayside and 'real life' sink in.

I have maintained my status as artist, both in person and profession for many years, a fact of I am extraordinarily proud of, but one that can be a challenge to maintain from time to time. This is especially true when life gets hard and for me - it has gotten hard. Real hard.

Instead of returning to my brush or relying on my pen I find that, when I sink down into the cobalt blues I prefer to space than to create. This nagging feeling, paired with one of the few true benefits of social media, just the other day I was inspired. A fellow real life adult and artist had chosen to take the #100daysofart challenge and post it to her instagram. When questioned about the project she said, and I am paraphrasing, that this too was something she needed to exercise.

Not wanting my creative quads to atrophy, I decided to assign myself the challenge of creating something new, witnessing something beautiful, or learning something enlightening everyday and, in turn, sharing it with the cyber-world at large.

I will be documenting this atypical journey through my own instagram, blog and on SOAlife, I hope you come along for the ride and I hope it inspires you too to do some squats for the soul.

Ta Ta I am Off to Thailand

Awaking before the sun lit the sky I knew I was in for a long day.

A day better suited for the likes of John Candy in my mother's favorite 'Planes Trains and Automobiles' fraught with the aforementioned, several time zones and what I can only imagine to be a cacophony of calories only sourced from places like airports and train depots.

Tightly swaddled in my freshly purchased fur lined leggings and delicately mixing it with every pattern and color scheme known to man, I was ready. I was ready to hit the road for what was bound to be yet another adventure, another chapter in my already schizophrenic memoir.

Or was I?

With personal tragedy comes lots of introspection and already possessing and over-sized cranium that works harder than the North Pole in Winter introspection, speculation and preponderance have pretty much over taken my life.

Some big decisions have been made and some big changes lay in wait, leaving me a month in South East Asia with  a couple pair of leggings, some beat to shit Converse, my camera and the time and space to figure out who I am without the person who made me.

I've contemplated teaching English in Costa Rica, priced out a ticket to take me 'round the world in a whole lot more than 80 days and considered moving to a number of domestic locations, most romantically New Orleans.

And this is where I landed, 1,000 pound bag on my back and my homeless chic attire in full bloom. Passport in hand and nothing but uncertainty as far as the eye can see.

An easy check in at ANA Airlines, a nickname from a dear friend, seems to be to be a good sign and free Halloween candy at the counter solidifies my suspicion.

And with a fun sized Milky Way in my breast pocket, I'm off. Off on the sort of flight bursting at the seems with people who so clearly look nothing like me, or me like them and who say things like 'thank you for your cooperation' when my inquiry into the procurement of hot tea is met with a disappointing no - as tea is saved for a later point in my 20 hour flight. I can only imagine this is more of a cultural 'lost in translation' than actual gratitude for me not throwing a full blown air fit.

One of my most favorite things about international flights is not the actual silverware or mandatory blanket and pillow but the extensive supply of current American movie titles I never got a chance to see but had accumulated on my mental 'gotta see at some point' list.

After watching a teen tearjerker about kids with cancer and not so much as a heavy mist in my big brown eyes I begin to flip through the options and seeing 'Taken 2' available in Japanese, Portuguese and English I burst into tears.

That is the funny thing about grief. That is the funny thing about loving someone despite the fact no longer at home reading, or working, or writing a report due on Monday, but gone. Gone completely. Gone in a way that can't be altered or adjusted or negotiated in any way. The kind of gone you just simply have to deal with it. And that is the kind of gone that elicits waterworks at the mere glimpse of a bad action sequel because your dad was, and will always be your own personal action hero.

10 minutes into the newly released film 'Dead Poets Society' and I can already tell Liam Neeson may have been the more prudent choice for an emotional woman like myself...

As I look out at the Japanese landscape during our decent I can't help but think back to my only other experience in Asia. Last year, en route to Vietnam I had a layover in China. Not one to get excited over much past the occasional 'Nsync concert in my teenage years I had a 'holy shit I am in China moment' and have a clear visual of calling my dad from the airport to share this rare wonderment. Wheels down in Tokyo evokes a similar sentiment and I cannot help but think the man that shared my experience via Face Time nearly a year ago will now only share experiences, like this one, in a small metal vessel tucked securely into my carry on and set for trips around the world. Life is so bitter sweet.

Bitter when you realize the love of your life is gone. Sweet when you discover a woman in her 60s seated across the aisle from you is dressed like a member of the lollipop guild sans any dash of irony, and ones faith in humanity is restored.

I wanted to be offended when I deboarded and the kind air hostesses switched immediately from their native tongue to thickly accented English. A  5'7" white girl with a Michael Jackson sweatshirt on is bound to stand out, at least a little, after all, I am in the Far East.

An extended layover in the Narita airport, offset by ramen and Instagram and the final 6 hour leg of my flight begins, through most of which I sleep. That is until those tiny paper immigration cards that seem awfully antiquated to somehow protect homeland security are handed out and I  am able to look around the plane a bit.

A man in line boarding mentioned all the 'Westerners' but I saw no chaps and spurs , heard no John Wayne impersonations,so I thought little of it. Now, as I sit here with the haze of awkward travel slumber hanging heavy over me I see Westerners really means while people and, as is the case here, old white people.

I knew Thailand had become a popular destination for those recently retired and ready to turn it up on a pre-booked tour and for the kids sporting shiny new North Face backpacks who chose a location 'safe' enough to have daddy bankroll their senior spring break abroad, but man - there are a lot of white people on this plane. Sam Jackson should make a sequel ...

Once safely on the ground in Bangkok I am not only met with the thick humidity that pulls at my pant legs as I traipse through the nighttime air, but also with my travel mate for the week, a woman part family, part friend, too complicated to explain but too amazing not to love.

She has taken advantage of my voyage and tagged along for the first week to get a taste of the Orient, and the hostel life. We will she if she survives either...

Happy Birthday, Dad.

In God We Trust, In Bueracracy We Scoff

Nearly two years ago, I was sitting in Fort Tryon Park in Northern Manhattan, spilling my heart out about a then recent break up to a good friend after midnight when we were approached by two officers who shown flashlights into the vehicle clearly searching for signs of drinking, smoking or fornicating - none of which were taking place.

We were promptly issued two pink carbon copied summonses for being in the park after dark having a conversation in our thirties - which, until that moment, I had not realized was a crime.

That flimsy summons sat, neatly folded and patient, in my wallet until recently, when I decided to handle my business, head to 346 Broadway in downtown Manhattan to take in the sights and sounds of the criminal courthouse whilst extinguishing my shady criminal past. Knowing full well what experiences at places like the DMV and Post Office are like I thought I knew what I was in for - little did I know what I was in for was a reality show waiting to happen.

After ascending the majestic marble staircase I was deposited into a long line, flanked by nylon ropes and created entirely of young men and old foreigners in various shades of brown. Quite used to being the only vanilla face in a room of chocolate, this felt different. This felt intentional. This felt wrong.

After getting dinged to window 5, I was met by a smile-less face who took my pink sheet of paper and exchanged it for a sheet orange copy paper instructions with a place for me to sign, signifying my understanding that I was now to move on to court room #2 for my hearing. The thought of having a hearing seemed preposterous, but it was too late to turn back now, so down the lifeless hall I moved in a building so full of youthful testosterone that I fear I may have fallen pregnant. With neon pink papers to the left and bright orange papers to the right I used my well honed life skills to decipher my destination and took a seat under the fluorescent lights on the hard wooden benches to, with no direction from the gaggle of state employees doing their best impressions of functioning adults,wait.

It was during this seeming endless wait time that I was able to do what I do best - observe, and judge. There were so many questions, and no one from whom I could seek answers. For example, is it a requirement to score higher on the BMI chart than the IQ spectrum to become an employee on the state level and, if are you expected to look like a children's book character, as Ms. Frizzle and Humpty Dumpty in a Men's Warehouse castoffs seem to be playing the roles of Public Defenders. Apparently John Larroquette and Markie Post were unavailable for consultation no matter how much I willed them into existence. Needless to say, if I had actually committed any sort of crime I would not have felt so secure.

With the strict enforcement of no cell phones in the courtroom I was forced to make friends and did so quickly with the man behind me who went simply by Mr. Petersen and who immediately spotted me as a newbie and was kind enough to show me the ropes. After guessing at my offense as being an open container (maybe container of gummy bears) Mr. Petersen was quickly called to the front, stood respectfully with his hands behind his back and posture at attention, and just as quickly was dismissed. While witnessing this show or respect and reverence I made a note to self to exercise my freedom of douchbaggery and to channel my not so inner teenager and stand in any damn manner I saw fit - showing no respect for this mockery of the justice system.

Evidently shortly after Mr. Petersen departed it was time for an impromptu recess in which the geriatric judge and some unidentified woman with a  Billy Jean King haircut chatted about, what I can only image is senior sexual dysfunction and post-menopausal lubricant. The three bailiffs, none resembling Bull, deemed it appropriate to pretend that they worked for a living a good 20 minutes or so later and I was called to the front where I did my best impression of angsty Angela Chase and was read the riot act - and by riot act I mean the PD sweated profusely beside me before having to repeat the judges declaration in order for me to properly hear that I was now discouraged from entering any parks after dark. I think I literally saw them ball up my paperwork and toss it into the bin as I had my proverbial wrist slapped while exhaustively rolling my eyes and making the most dramatic and sarcastic exit I could muster.

While descending those stairs I boldly climbed not 2 hours before, I realized that not only was this the worst Night Court live action play I had ever seen, but this had been funded by me - the tax paying citizen. It may be a sign that you're a full fledged adult when not only do you make complaints, but do so based on where you're hard-earned tax dollars are being funneled.

Having had my brush with the law I learned my lesson. Never ever will I go out after dark without the written permissions of some authority figure in my life ( I am 32!) and though I may trust in 'God' I most certainly scoff at bureaucracy.

From A to NZ and Back Again

Our last night in Rotorua was restful and we had a morning apart, allowing for some much needed alone time. Jackie spent hers regretfully not eating or emailing, but luxuriating by the lake and I spent mine mowing down on my new favorite dish - Muesli - and accessing WiFi at the local library. It was a relaxing morning and a great way to say goodbye to the town that is known as the 'cultural center' of the North Island of New Zealand. Our 12:50 Naked Bus was late, but much like the third world countries I am so fond of, no one seemed to mind. The attitude down here seems to be very Hakuna Matata. No one has more affection for the string of animated Disney hits from the 90s than me, but unfortunately that particular mantra never quite stuck. Finally on the bus close to an hour late, we were on our way to our last stop on this crazy month- long ride.

We had been informed by Jack, our trusty hostel aide in Rotarua that staying the night in Turangi would likely be a better bet than taking the bus all the way to the holiday park in Tongariro National Park, as we had booked. Evidently most day trippers set up often set up there prior to the hikes in the park, as accommodation is much more easily sourced. After passing through Taupo we finally made it to Turangi late in the day to either stay, or change buses, depending on what decision we chose to make last minute- as we are wont to do. A friendly woman on the bus had confirmed that Turangi was our best bet as I was making best friends with her 4 year old granddaughter and Jackie was sitting by awkwardly (who knew I was a kid person) and the bus driver designated to take us up to Tongariro National Park base camp gave us sage words of wisdom that Turangi offered not only more places to stay, but more places to eat. With the clock ticking and our time running low in New Zealand, we made the perhaps hasty decision to hop on that last bus to base camp/holiday park in Tongariro National Park. This base camp consists of one place for sleep that consists largely of spaces for tents and RVs, one trekking shop, and one cafe. As we rolled in around 4pm, after having been on the bus all day we were greeted, initially, by a sign left on the cafe door informing us that the proprietors had taken a little holiday of their own and would not return until Tuesday. It was Friday.

Jackie immediately went into panic mode, as we had not prepared for either camping or eating and had a half a box of crackers, one apple, one banana and two granola bars amongst us - and a 6 hour hike ahead of us the following morning. We were luckily able to procure the #24 'cabin' which was the size of a shoe box and smelled uncannily like my grandmother. The beds had no linens but Jacks had her sleep sack, I had my Qantas blanket snagged on our first flight that has served as makeshift everything along the way, and we had a heater in the room so we were good to go.

Before the sun set we decided to take advantage of the small, local hikes and went to a path about 15 minutes from our housing for the evening which had two locations at which some Maori big wig had his last stand. It was quiet and beautiful and as it gave me a sense of peace. It only made Jackie hungrier.

Back at cabin 24, at sunset, we divvied up our provisions - me making the mistake of putting the pungent Balsamic and Sea Salt crackers I had purchased in the same bag as the gummy-filled chocolate bar Jackie had purchased for her sister but decided we needed on our hike, and the handful of almonds I had left all in one bag. This created some sort of salty sweet trail mix - but not in a good way. At dawn, Jackie essentially drank her banana, that had seen better days, and I grabbed my apple and camera and we set off - being promised that the front desk Scotswoman would retrieve and hold our bags for our return later that day on our way back down the mountain.

A bus full of fellow trekkers came to pick us up - replete with REI and North Face gear from window to window as Jackie and I loaded up on the frigid 6 am bus in a mess of pattern, colors and layers - mostly dirty - anxious to attempt New Zealand's best 1 day hike. One of their 'Great Walks.'

The day started pretty easily - with a babbling brooke and lush scenery. I have never seen or read 'Lord of the Rings' but with this being the location for at least one of the movies - I can see why - as the rolling green hills and jagged rocky mountains set in a clear blue sky - it seems ideal for fantasy. Walking in the early morning chill, as the sunlight just begins to peek over the mountains, with only the sounds of running water and native insects to provide a soundtrack I had an epiphany. As I began to mount the first incline it all became so clear - I am not a hiker. Even a little. This is not the first volcano I have scaled, yet each time I do it I realize just a little bit more how outdoorsy I am not. I am athletic. I like nature - but I have to admit the combination of the two is, to a large degree, lost on me.

Despite this realization I endured the 3 hours up the loose gravel path, revealing ice blue pools in the sky and the 'red crater' that bears a striking resemblence to the birth place of... babies. 3 more hours back down and I was ready for the hour lounging in the sun before the bus was set to pick us up. It was so nice basking in the warmth and silence, until all the other hikers harshed my mellow by finishing their hikes and waiting for the park sanctioned bus to come retrieve them from their 13 mile sojourn as well.

The departure from Tangariro led us to the long ride home - literally. Jackie was going into sugar shock - or lack there of, suffering from some sort of hypoglycemic episode and she grabbed a candy bar as I grabbed our bags at base campe en route to Taupo where we knew dinner awaited. Lucikly, Jackie's resourcefulness also led to showers for $2 a pop at a local hostel where a stag party was taking place with the sun still high in the sky and I, being the people pleaser I am, licked a strange man's nipple per his friend's scavenger hunt request. First the hike, then the lick - it was a day chaulked full of adventure.

We made a quick run to Pack 'N Save , an establishment in which I have not been since I was a little girl for some needed snacks and we were out. When I say run, I mean run as the bus to Auckland was coming in 10 minutes and I was openly mocked by locals as I ran with my contraband cart being pushed, heavy with both snacks and bags, at full speed to the bus stop.

4 more hours on the bus to Auckland allowed us to watch our final sunset below the equator and when arriving around 1am on Quay street, where this particular leg began, we decided it would only be right to sample a local beer before departing from this foreign land. 2 Mac's Gold were partially consumed and the airport shuttle was boarded. Arriving at the airport we once again found choice spots in the massage chairs that remain erect and provide me with an ideal sleeping situation while providing Jackie with a severe lack of REM and subsequesntial crankiness.

Auckland to Sydney - where our flights was delayed and I befriended some nice older ladies and a young man from whom I wish I had retrieved contact information - James McKnight I am looking for you - and then Sydney to LA where the welcome home was less of a welcome and more of a pain in the ass due to the less than stellar staff at LAX, lacking in both people and cognitive skills. Jacks remained in LA to hang with her bestie and I came here - to chilly New York. Left with a pack of stale Anzac biscuits and a tan I am intent on keeping in the frosty east.

Not the trip I had envisioned and certainly not the cure all my loved ones had hoped for - but a new adventure, a new continent, and a new series of ridiculous stories to tell.

Photos to come...