Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Misery Loves Company, But I'm Rolling Solo: The Vancouver Files



Quick, cheap and easy.

No, this is not the headline to my online dating profile, but the criteria for my latest, if not most exotic, international endeavor.

Never having visited our Northern neighbor and currently resting my head atop a mattress made of air on the West Coast, Vancouver seemed like a good escape from life and a viable new notch in my ever growing lipstick case. The 34th notch to be precise.

It's a bit of a chicken or egg situation in terms of life falling apart and international journeys  for me and my LAX to YVR  voyage was no different.

Knowing I have to get up at the crack of dawn always seems to allow for a "Keeping Up With The Karadashians" late night marathon watched directly on my ever aging iPhone 4, followed by fitful rest. Up before the sun and driving myself to the airport for the first time in I don't know how long, I found myself winding around a dilapidated parking lot guarded by construction workers I like to think were named Dumb and Dumber, both of whom insisted there was no possible way I had entered the structure, due to their construction, despite the physical evidence of my actually standing there. Once inside Terminal 2, I was greeted with a winding road of fellow travelers making their way up to the Air Canada counter. With a crowd like this, one would have thought the Great White North had suddenly become the sexiest destination on the planet, when in fact the airline's computer system has malfunctioned and now those of us wise enough to pack a single army navy surplus duffle were benefitted no speedy entrance to US Weekly and Chex Mix heaven, known as the interior of the airport, and instead were left with the plebeians this side of security who brought their entire winter wardrobe on their travels. Amateurs.

Security was its usual shit show , highlighted with a security guard telling me he 'detected' my sarcasm as if it were the Anthrax of the mouth, and witnessing a nun in full habit AND seated helplessly in a wheelchair asked to remove her orthotic shoes to be inspected for harmful materials. Is this not just a little ridiculous? As soon as I turned around I was met with a young mother trying to fold up her stroller and carry her newborn, a difficult task for anyone, especially when 4 TSA agents are standing idly by and insisting they can not legally offer any assistance. Not knowing how to finagle a quick fold up with the stroller I instead held a stranger's baby - totally normal right! When the less than helpful TSA agent commented that I looked good like that, with a sleeping baby in my arms, I knew it was time to get my dose of radiation and get the hell out of there before I either burst into tears or made a run for it with the lady's baby. Both seemed like less than desirable options.

After being herded directly from security into a Starbuck's line where I was not only forced to purchase pastries, but also witness their caloric content on the helpful notecards placed beside them in the display case. It was then that I realized I had forgotten my father. Creepy, perhaps but you too will understand "Six Feet Under" in a new way when you lose your Nate. Overcome with guilt I tried to justify my oversight by explaining to myself that Dad had been here in life and, therefore, didn't need a repeat - though I knew the argument was weak. Not having officially repeated a country yet I already begun to think about a quick Toronto jaunt or Quebec getaway to make sure Dad gets to leave a piece of himself in every country he can. Sigh.

Luckily it was while experiencing this inherent Catholic guilt that I glanced over at a fellow patron. I wish I could apply this to life in general more often, but occasionally when I'm feeling low, I will see a very unfortunate looking woman, as I did in the line at Starbucks, and I'll think to myself - things could be worse. But then again she seemed to be married with children so who am I to judge...

Shallow, perhaps. Judgmental, maybe. Necessary to get through the day, occasionally. Human, absolutely.

I hope each and everyone of you gets the chance to board an Air Canada Rouge flight so you too can admire the flight attendant's kitschy plaid fedoras (part of the uniform - no joke) and visible panty lines while receiving safety instructions in both English and, what I can only imagine is a good healthy 8th grade education Francais. Oh La La.

My standard operating practice for flights is to fall asleep, open mouthed at take off and miss out on the complimentary beverages and, as was the case here, free WiFi, to be woken up by the captain announcing our final decent. This bilingual experience followed suit.

A nice Indian man who has been in Vancouver, by way of Houston, for 16 years deposited me safely at Hotel Buchan, my humble housing for the next few days and I immediately dropped my duffle in room 427 and headed to Stanley Park.




















Stanley Park is a huge nature reserve in the city of Vancouver, and just a couple of blocks from my hotel - chosen for that reason. It seems to be on all of the googleable lists when searching the day before your departure on what to see in this city and it is the ONLY thing one of my besties Simone recommended I see. Hotel Buchan backs up to Lost Lagoon - all too fitting, I know.

Speaking of fitting, as I wander the wet and moody town I cannot help but think how fortuitous that I land in a city reflecting how I feel inside. Grey and gloomy, tears drenching the once blooming bushes and fruitful trees. Fresh fuchsia flowers bending under the weight of bullshit and rain. Depression make me poetic - I know!


Consciously, I chose Vancouver for its convenience; the bodega of destinations- but maybe the it's old adage that you attract what you are - beautiful and melancholy all at the same time.

As I began my umbrella accompanied walk around Lost Lagoon I felt a powerful presence. Here I must warn you I am entering some real #oprahgranolashit territory, but I felt my Dad. Before I had lost someone this important in my life and involved in my existence I sort of discounted people when they said things like that, or at least let it go in one ear and out the other - but here, I actually felt it. I felt it like a smack in the face - something my real Dad would never do but maybe my ghost Dad (copyrighting here for any future young adult novel I may want to pen and then option as a feature film) would. As I meandered down the muddied pathway and sat and watched a single swan prune itself with complete accuracy (also something my father would never have done in life) I felt him. It was visceral, and it was the definition of a happy sad moment, smiling through the sobs.

When in the quiet of solicitude, you witness the songs in every movement of nature. When in the presence of Maxwell, you witness the songs of lovemaking.

A calming melancholy poured over me as "Pretty Wings,"  began to play - a song to which I used to openly weep over a love lost. A love for which I no longer shed tears but from which I gained knowledge and wisdom. Through which I became a woman. My hope is one day, in the not to distant future I can hear another melodic tale of heartbreak and think of this period of time with nostalgic warmth as opposed to the deep blues of sadness with which I am currently consumed.

Everyone wants to believe Maxwell with he soulfully spills that someone better is gonna love you - but I suppose that is open to interpretation. I've lost many loves in the past 12 months. Loves of all sorts. Loves in all shapes and sizes, colors and cadences and I can say with absolute certainty that some will never be eclipsed by the shadow of another. It simply isn't possible.

Rounding the bend at Second Beach was a breakthrough moment. Not only because I was suppressing the whoa is me moment I was having, but I began to channel the pre-pubescent me. I could almost see the dimming light as the disco ball descended, almost smell the damp carpet and processed cheese. Sunrise Rollerland housed a lot of good memories, but not until this moment did I realize it held a lesson as well. Firstly, of course, always go to the bathroom in pairs because there are no doors on the stalls and you need your homie to mind the gap, but also a lesson in love. It was during those couple skates, clammy hand in hand that I listened to former beauty queen turned silky songstress Vanessa Williams and she told me that he went and saved the best for last. Though no one likes the be the last kid chosen for dodgeball, maybe all I need to do is be patient and pay the proper amount of homage to 90's adult contemporary, and everything would be ok.

The sun also came out.
















Feeling like some light reading and light lunching would do me some good, I wandered the West End until I found a place - Central Bistro.

The feel of a British pub with the menu of the persnickety Pacific Northwest, this was the spot.

I ordered a chicken club sandwich, not exotic but also something I have never eaten before and cracked open a book, ready to settle in for a bit.

A lengthy break for iced tea, wifi and social commentary and the outdoors beckoned. I'm happy to spend endless hours in cafes reading, writing and watching but the clouds had parted, the drizzle ceased and, as I set out along the waters edge I saw what people spoke of when they called Vancouver beautiful.

The water sparkled like a sea of cz's off of the home shopping network while couples jogged, evidently no one walks in Vancouver - everyone runs - perhaps to free healthcare, and new mothers pushed strollers in unison with their mommy pals, all against a background of lush green mountains and Bob Ross happy trees.

I circumnavigated the peninsula in the late afternoon sun, taking off several layers of clothing and basking in the bright warmth. It was peaceful and lovely and exactly what you expect Canadian metropolises to be. Cute dogs and clean streets paved the way for me to literally walk the perimeter of the city. Only heading in when Robson Street - the main drag as I have been told, beckoned and the chill of evening set in. 

I managed to find a couple of Canuck souvenir stores while walking down Robson, which I had been told were littered with shops and cafes - translations: Old Navy's and Starbucks - its like America, but worse. Managing to pick up some obligatory souvenirs from my travels for those back stateside, I felt like my day had been productively unproductive and it was time to head back home. 

Cool, calm and quite is how I would characterize my first foray. With the exception of a homeless man in need of help telling me to fuck off and a fat fuck yelling at the gas station attendant for having to waddle his big behind INTO the station to pay, insisting he will never being his business back to this hell hole, it was easy like Sunday morning - on a Monday. 

With my 'foreign' candies  - another travel tradition - in hand I ascended the stairs to room 427 and set in for a quiet evening of television, writing and relaxing. For anyone from the states trying to do this in Canada please make note that A) hockey is ALWAYS on here and b) the pride of the Canadians is so great that it is mentioned in every advert and promo on television. Literally. I never hear - visit American Honda or watch American E! News - but these maple leaf loving maniacs love themselves some Canadian product placement. 

Drowsing off to sleep after some Instagram stalking and old repeats of of "How I Met Your Mother" - sexy, I know - and I was out like a light.























I woke to the dripping of the bathroom faucet and the disappointment of another day. It's amazing how one night of sleep can wipe away all the Wonder Woman shit and just leave a lonely little girl twisting in stranger's sheets.

Friday, April 17, 2015

#100daysofart: weeks 4 and 5, art is what happens when you're busy making other plans


Another week, another 2 weeks + fraught with real life and peppered with art.

Ironically, those weeks when things are a mess, and time is limited I find it easier to create pieces I actually like. Of course, this is not always the case. There are a couple in images below that were more or less phoning it in, but this exercise is about consistency and making it happen - each and every day. Much like life, some days yield great results, and some just yield.

Below is a shot I took on the Sunset strip and decided to filter it and send it out into the universe. 

Below that I was in the office, had my notebook and had had a lovely afternoon, leaving me with lingering inspiration and a Bic. With no preparation and no real tools, strangely, this is one of my favorite pieces thus far. Perhaps the simplicity and actual emotion made it work so well.
day 31

day 32day 33






Wanting my art to inhabit all sorts of spaces, not just that of my notebook, I had the chalk, and the time to make the piece 'Faux Sweet Home' - a simple sentence that entered my head and exited my hands. With a recent extended stay in Los Angeles, a new home that does not yet feel like that - home - it seemed appropriate. I am proud of myself for trying something new, making major alterations to a life that felt like it wasn't working - at least not for me - but that is no way means I am not missing Wash Heights, NYC.

I recently dug up some old college equipment, including my charcoal and , with my father as a constant beacon of inspiration and continuing presence in my life I thought a quick sketch of a recently acquired shot of him as a little boy, not the man who was my father, first with the 'stache in the 80s and then with the thinning crown of hair in the 2000s, this little boy was just Chris, Betty and Neil's son, Elizabeth's little brother and, in this shot, Santa Claus's lap companion. Strange to think of a life before me, in terms of blood relatives, of which I have few, but nice to be reminded of the beautify of the individual, devoid of your influence.

A beautiful dusk at a favorite watering hole, and a sad day with a blue canvas, sharpie and melted 99 cent store crayons made a melancholic piece. My time management was tested for the image below in which I was shooting the founder of Ping Tank, a new and innovative app in his Hollywood Hills home seemed an obvious choice and allowed for rare sighting of the artist herself, though shot from behind. I stand strong that my face does not need to make the rounds on the Internet and that the world wide web benefits more from what comes out of it's contents.



























day 38



day 39

day 40


day 41
day 42

day 43

day 44

day 45

day 46

day 47


My head never quiets. It is both a blessing and a curse and, more in the distant past than the present, I take the opportunity to pour those thoughts, emotions and lines out onto physical paper. It helps clear my mind and makes me feel like pain, confusion and anguish can be a beautiful and useful tool. A poem, written art, shot under a bougainvillea seemed an appropriate piece and helped download some of the data on my internal hard drive. Blue sort of speaks for itself and with the cyber lives of millions becoming a series of hash tags, it was brought to my attention of National Siblings Day, on which I chose to use collage to honor my relationship with my big sister.

Art of Bella is a DIY painting studio in Koreatown I had been eager to visit for a couple of months now and, with a guest visiting me in the city of Angels, I took the opportunity to make a mug with words of wisdom for someone who has brought me into a positive space by proxy and for whom I am eternally grateful.

A visit to the Getty Center children's gift shop left me going home with an all one-stop-shopping watercolor postcards and a coloring book of transparent dragons - one of which now hangs proudly on my window.

Canvas, chalk and a sharpie created day 44 and as I approach the half way mark another pen and paper doodle ended up being one of my best received pieces.

I had originally had great plans for a dollar store find puzzle but, when the reality fully sank in, I chose to grab a handful of colorful pieces, a glue stick and, once again draw a line bouncing around in my huge Heard cranium and made a piece that actually spoke from a personal place. I find I really like simple pieces with words that mean something, to me if no one else, and day 46 most certainly reflected that.

Wanting to make this a Tuesday update, I am finding myself falling behind and felt done is better than perfect, a mantra I chant to myself, and a couple of dear friends on occasion and am leaving this post with a set of paper dolls, or analog emojis if you will that I created taking the cardboard out of some recently purchased ankle socks that I felt needed to be re-purposed and doodled on to make this phallic family.

Nothing here took more than a 24 hour period to concept and create, nothing here was made with anything but my heart, mind and body and nothing here is perfect - but I can say with absolute certainty - that everything here is me.


Tuesday, March 31, 2015

#100daysofart: weeks 3 and 4, making it work



Though I have never seen an episode of Bravo's Project Runway, I do fancy myself a bit of a pop culture connoisseur and I do know who Tim Gunn is. It is my understanding that Mr. Gunn uses this term as a 'shut up and put up' sort of mantra, only with far more panache. Trying to create an original piece of visual art every 24 hours is most certainly a put up sort of agenda and, though thus far it has taken turns I didn't expect, I am currently 'making it work.'

I knew that travel outside of the state would create obstacles in my cerebral adventure, but I chose to incorporate my travels as oppose to avoid. Shooting Ghostface on stage was amazing and, not wanting to rely on photography too heavily for this project, I deemed him, and this shot above, worthy. With little time to spare my third day at SXSW I got crafty and created an environmental scene using the wrist bands I had received the day before. Though I didn't know what I was doing as I was doing it, I sort of think this works.























A plane ride can really take it out of you and making my tomato garnish into a piece of art and a symbol of love brought my mediocre Mexican takeout to a whole new level with just a couple swipes of plastic knife. Wanting to explore art with Photoshop I took the maturation of my oldest nephew into an official teenager as an opportunity to make his monumental 13th birthday well, monumental. Flawed as it is, it was done with love - and what could be more beautiful than that?

A postcard to a dear friend is a standard practice in my life, but drawing it with pictograms instead of an assortment of 26 characters was a fun new take in addition to being a throwback to the days of high school when Hillary Gatlin and I thought we were far more clever than any of our teachers when passing notes between periods in this DaVinci code. Seeing beauty in the nature outside, the flora of which is unparalleled in sunny Southern California, let me to my next now pressed flower and pen drawing and a quick article on permanent marker and rubbing alcohol led me to the baseball cap only a niece could love (at least hopefully!).

























At first I envisioned this project as a chance for me to take my university honed art skills and get my still life or pottery wheel on. Having a degree in Fine Art has been a blessing, but the practice in everyday life can be hard found. Instead of using my charcoal on the daily, I find myself going way way back, perhaps to when I first became an artist, when I was just a kid with a box of Crayolas. After encouragement from my parents and desire building inside I brought it to college, to the professional world and now here, to social media. The full circle of life. Ha!

Making it a point to use different mediums and play with different techniques, all while fitting it into a busy work life and developing social calendar on a new/old coast has left me using the resources and time that I have to the fullest. Whether that is a collage torn from the pages of People, a quick shot of interesting architecture in a local Asian eatery, experimenting with crayons and fire, creating colorful lines and dots while burning the print off of my right thumb, or my piece de resistance, Selena Quintanilla Perez's portrait on a teeny tiny canvas commemorating the anniversary of her untimely passing. A big Selena fan I wanted to make sure to represent and though a full length image in a purple jumpsuit may have screamed the tejano star a bit more, this simple sharpie portrait would have to do.









































 I will admit that this challenge is, well, challenging - but as I am forced to flex not only artistic muscles, but creative ones, in terms of logisitcs as to how to accomplish a piece each day - it is sort of fun!