Beauty is in the Eye

I'm working on a few quilts right now, all custom orders, and the one that has consumed me the most has been a t-shirt quilt that was ordered by a young lady for her (now) ex-boyfriend, who happened to have been a high school football star.

Generally, I don't think much about the aesthetics and artistic merits of t-shirt quilts. Someone mails me their old, sentimental for whatever reason t-shirts, we choose sashing fabrics and I make them into a quilt. This one in particular was interesting, partially due to its story- the client is only 17. She and her boyfriend dated for the last 3 years, and she started to make him this quilt, but stopped when they broke up. She was nice enough to not just dump the pile of cut up shirts on his doorstep, but found me online and actually enlisted my services to do what she felt she could no longer do herself, finish his quilt to preserve his high school memories, which, in her words, he deserves.

The school colors on this one are funny...red and green. I sent her fabric combo options, she chose, and away I went. Anything I thought about the quilt was in the story behind it, in the mathematics involved with dealing with her having cut the squares differing sizes (PITA), and making sure I did a good job. Any beauty was lost on me. When I sent her the picture of the top, to make sure she liked it before it was forevermore untakeapartable her response was overwhelmingly positive. Lots of exclamation points and accolades...so many in fact, I was a little shocked. I mean, she sent me these t-shirts. She picked the fabric I sent in her color preference. What was the big deal? What on earth was she expecting? Seemed too enthusiastic for the situation.

Later that day, a friend was over and saw the finished top. She couldn't stop saying how pretty it was. Last night, my husband was helping me sandwich it, as it's just a bit too large to do myself, and started waxing poetic about how beautiful it was. He was particularly struck by how a bunch of old, worn t-shirts could be spun around and attached to fabric and made into something useful, keepworthy, and artistic all at the same time. He's seen a million quilts in his life, including every single one I've ever made, but this was different. It was late, I was tired, but I was so overcome with the sweetness of the absolute sincerity of his words that, well, I had to tweet about it. That's gotta mean something. :)

It had me thinking all day though, about how I dismiss these quilts as more practical, less artistic, than my others. I love helping people preserve their memories, but it isn't necessarily artistically fulfilling. But it seems like I may need to rethink that.

September What?

I know most of the country is working on being contemplative about the fact that tomorrow marks the 8th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Towers...but I find myself consumed with other contemplations.

As I sit here in my living room, my often laundry covered sofa providing me with a comfortable spot to sit and write, my poor, overworked, sleep deprived husband completely crashed out next to me, a very ambitious cricket outside tries to get noticed, and a developmentally disabled chicken sits brimming with malcontent outside on the step after being kicked out of the house. Again. This is my life.

When the planes struck the towers I was pregnant with my first child, and after days of sorrow, I tuned out all coverage of the event to protect my fetus from my overwhelming sadness over the losses felt by so many people. Today, the day before the 8th anniversary, I sent my baby boy off to kindergarten. His first full day of school, the first day of the new era, and I found myself torn. Full of sadness? Not exactly. Melancholy, nostalgia, regret for every morning not appreciated, every opportunity potentially lost by me having a quilt to finish, or payroll to submit, or dishes to wash...yes, those things I felt. An overwhelming sense of freedom and the excitement of what lies ahead for both of us? Yes, I felt that too. But as much as I struggled to find my identity after Max was born and I stopped teaching, I didn't realize I'd have to find it again now.
PTA vice president? Yes.
Office Manager? Kinda.
Housewife? I don't think so.
What I want to be and what I can be are very different. I'd love to spend all day creating things, sewing, quilting, making and posting new things for sale on Quilting Mama, but it doesn't seem a valid career option. Teaching is not an option, thanks to Governor Terminator. Office manager is a full time job in theory, but seeing as my paycheck is non existent, it doesn't really count. The plan is to seek representation and try and find work as an actor, but that's a tough world too, and talk about not terribly secure...and what does that mean anyway? Who will I be? It's just all so confusing. And the worst part is that I'm going to miss conversations like this:

Max: Mama, do you know what kind of pets I am going to have when I'm a grown up?
Me: No, honey, what?
Max: I TOLD you already! Why don't you remember??
Me: I'm sorry, sweetheart, can you remind me?
Max: I'm going to have 4 cats, a lizard, a snake, and a hamster.
Me: Hmm, ok.
Max: I don't want dogs because I don't want poop in my backyard
Me: Seems reasonable, but you know those other animals poop too, you're going to have to clean their cages at some point.
Max: I'll make sure to be at work when that happens.
Me: Well, then you'll need to clean the cage when you get home.
Max: (whispers something)
Me: What was that?
Max: (loud sigh) Nearaiah will do it.
Me: How do you know she won't have a job and not be at home either?
Max: She's going to work at home.
Me: You can't decide that for her...she may want to become an astronaut like you and go to the moon, then no one will be home to clean the cages.
Max: She can be an astronaut from home.
Me: That may not work.

Things I Like

(repost from old blog, from May of 2008, but still very applicable...)

The ceiling fans in my house
The freckles on Magnolia's nose
A good episode of Law and Order
Jeremy Sisto (yum)
My new Target panties
Singing on stage
Our bed
How Michael's hand has to touch his belly when he sleeps
Max's curls
The way Xena picks up whatever is closest to her to try to control her own bark when she can't help it.
Fabric
Our Backyard
Good Burritos
The way I feel doing my 3rd downward dog
Dusting
Nesting Dolls
Camp during devotions
Making Stuff
The first tomato of the summer (homegrown)
Dinner with an old friend
The looks I get when I talk about the fact that I keep chickens
When I come home to a clean kitchen
Getting a sale on Etsy
Watching the kids in the ocean
Cleavage
That Whitney won ANTM
Grace before meals
Text messages
Sunscreen
Pedicures
Gift Cards
Feeling Productive
Berries
Jumping in waves
Catching a wave on my boogie board
Ice Cream
Laughing until I can't breathe
Dancing with Michael
Waking up without an alarm

It's Funny

Life can change so quickly. Expected, unexpected...the changes just keep coming. In 2008 I experienced a horrible life change. 20% of my immediate family all of a sudden getting sick and dying. Yes, it was only one person, but the 5 of us were a team. An often dysfunctional and sometimes weirdly codependant team, but a team nonetheless. And in 48 days we went from 5 to 4. I felt all the stages of grief. I still feel like I cycle through them, even though it has been over a year since Mimma passed. I am a different person because of it.

2009 has brought forth change as well. Sometime in March, I asked the shy, quiet construction worker with the incredible opera voice in my musical theater class if he'd sing a song with me. The song was A Little Priest, from Sweeney Todd. It was the most fun I've had in my class. When our showcase performance was over, I got more accolades from random audience members than I have ever gotten in my life...and Michael insisted it was time. It was time for me to get back on stage for real.

When I got the email from my teacher, I didn't think much of it. It was announcing that one of our vocal coaches was music directing a musical, Nunsense, in the West Valley and they were having auditions the next week. The audition conflicted with a camp directors' meeting. The show conflicted with camp. After much discussion (M and I do nothing with simplicity) we decided it was worth trying. The process could be a blog post in and of itself, but to keep it brief, I'll just say- I got the part.

The process has brought me to tears of happiness, of anger, of frustration, and of pure joy...and with all of that it has given me a gift I had all but given up on. It gave me back my passion. From the day my stepmother chastised me for telling a dinner guest who asked what I was interested in that I was an actress ("Don't call yourself that, it's pretentious and it makes it seem like you're saying you're a professional, which you are not. No one pays you.") to the day that my HS counselor told me I needed to lose weight to land better parts to the day my college boyfriend suggested I work on costumes to continue my work in theater post graduation and beyond...the roads all led me away. I am back now. And it's really quite wondrous. I can't believe I let it lie for as long as I did.

So I advise, if you have something you love doing that you don't do...stop not doing it.

Maxism in the Morning on a Monday

It's been a while since I've written...part me being busy, part me being lazy, part me being overwhelmed with the idea of it...so I thought no time like the present to jump back in...but I am starting slow, with a little recounting of the conversation I just had with Max.

Max (stealing the sleeping kitten off of my shoulder): Can I have a burrito?
Me (on computer, jumping between twitter, facebook, and paying bills): Sure.
Max wanders off...

About 10 minutes later, I get up and away from the computer, and start tackling the to do list for the day, which involves tidying the front of the house, so I pass through the back with a pile of stuff, where Max is watching The Incredibles.

Max (on couch): So, did you make my burrito?
Me (not stopping, still putting things away and walking back and forth): No. You know how to make a burrito, I thought you were going to make it.
Max: No, that's ok, you can make it.
Me: No, I don't want to make it. I am doing something. You need to make the burrito if you want the burrito.
Max: I can't right now because I am watching the movie.
Me: Then I guess you won't get a burrito then.
Max: Please!
Me: You have to make it yourself. Not optional.
Max: But my hands are full.
Me: What?
Max. My hands are full. Full of kitty.

At this point, I just stopped talking. Full of kitty.

Me Me Me!

Lately, I've been having little meltdowns (on a more than normal basis) after my musical theater class. The last one was in front of my teacher, so to try to convince him that I am not a lunatic, I sent him an email. He responded with a very nice reply which of course made me break down again. I started to write back to him, but the more I wrote, the less like an appropriate email it seemed and the more like a blog entry it sounded. So I stopped mid paragraph and decided to write it out here. Thanks, y'all, for being free therapy.

I know I am talented. Sounds so conceited...especially in print...:) but I've always known I can act. I've been doing it since before I have memories, and I've always known I was good at it. It has always been the external things that have kept me down, so to speak. Body type, parents who aren't willing to take me to auditions or rehearsal, that sort of thing. The voice part has always been a struggle. Fifth grade, Ms. Sullivan's music class, warm ups...and my elementary school nemesis leaned forward and hissed "Ariella, you need to quiet down, your voice is terrible. Really, don't sing." Sadly, I kind of listened. I was still in the shows as long as I was at that school (til 8th grade), which were musicals, but I never sang out again. In junior high, I focused on just plain drama, and went to my high school planning on the same. I fell into the musical theater class to get out of doing PE, as was my option, and had the good fortune of being taught by 2 incredible people who absolutely kindled my love affair with the musical. I actually remember being asked by the principal, who was doing my schedule (it was a small magnet start up then), "You're here for drama, do you want to do Musical Theater Workshop as your PE requirement?" My response? "What's Musical Theater?". Heh. He explained that it meant Broadway Style shows, and being as I had been in plenty, and being as I had just come from a junior high where PE meant running around the giant grass field, I said yes straightaway.

High school was fantastic. I loved it a lot...I never made it into the smaller, fall productions, as I didn't have nearly the voice to compete with the incredibly talented folks who were favored by the powers that were, but I did do all the Drama performances, and I was in the larger Spring musicals as part of the ensemble. I knew that the director would have liked to cast me with a bigger part, but since I was unwilling to lose the weight he and the school counselor suggested I lose, and since even with him working with me my voice wasn't nearly as strong as the other girls with similar body types, I got ensemble. There are no small parts, only small actors, I was told repeatedly...and I took what I got and worked my booty off. I felt a little vindicated when I was the person he called the summer after graduation to fill in for a role in a show he was directing at a CLO...but it would have been nice to get some bigger parts in high school. Just sayin'.

One place I have always felt confident singing has been camp. When I was a CIT, I was singing a camp song during the slideshow we always had after the dance, and the now husband of the counselor I was paired with turned and looked at me and earnestly said "Share that gift, babe". I remember thinking it was odd, no one had ever complimented my singing before...and obviously it had an effect, cause I remember the moment clear as day, 20 years later. I often think about it when we are at campfire, and I am standing at the front of camp, holding the guitar books for the guitar players...especially on the first few nights, when everyone is still timid and unsure of the songs, and I feel like I need to sing louder to make sure they feel like they can sing too...I am taken back to that moment, sitting on the floor of the dining hall, a camper in each arm, being given that nugget of praise. Gift? I don't know about that...but it made me feel ok sharing it anyway.

When I got into UCLA, my fate was sealed. I wasn't allowed to apply to the University of Michigan, where I wanted to go to major in musical theater. I'm still bitter. UCLA's theater program was not well thought of by the teachers I loved so much, and they only had ONE musical theater class...so I didn't even bother trying to major in theater there. I had a nice run as RA of the arts floor in the dorms and we put on several shows over the years I lived in the dorms. I got to play Janet in The Rocky Horror Show...with my boyfriend playing Rocky, which worked out nicely...I got to direct A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, where one of the best compliments I got was from an ex who came to the performance and said- "Wow, I really thought this was going to suck, but it didn't! It was great!". I costumed Into the Woods, after a very stubborn me decided I would only be happy with one of 2 parts. Sadly, someone way more talented than me got the Baker's Wife part...deservedly so, and someone who was more convincing than me stole the Witch part from under my feet (later regretted by the directors). I'm still bummed I gave an ultimatum on that one, although I am still proud of those costumes... :) After college, I just stopped performing, unless you count karaoke...which I don't. All this time, I considered myself an actress who sang...not a true triple threat at all, since the dancing was certainly only passable. But I love musicals more than straight plays, so what do to? Just stop, I guess.

I fell into this musical theater class at Valley College pretty much by force. Another music teacher from my high school was chairing the Music department, and when my 2nd semester of piano was cancelled, he insisted that where I needed to be was the Broadway class. He signed me out of the pre-reqs and gave me an add slip. All I had to do was find a sitter. I am so thankful he did. It's made me aware again of how much I love being on stage. I am in shock that I kept away as long as I did, that I was willing to give that up. That was 2 years ago, and now, in my 5th semester of the class, I feel very comfortable getting up there and singing my heart out.

But here is the thing. It isn't a "voice" class. It's a performing class, so we discuss the performance, but he doesn't give us voice critique. It's great for me, cause I don't have a great voice. That elementary school nemesis aside (she's now my friend on FB and on one survey bemoaned the fact that she wishes she could sing...haha), I know my voice, and it's ok. It's not trained, it's not impressive...it just is. I am lucky that I can pull off a performance on my acting ability, and I can stay on key, and I sing with confidence...so those are all good things...but I am realistic about it. And usually, that's enough. But the last few weeks have been hard. I am singing a song that, put nicely by the accompanist, makes me sound like I am a worse singer than I am. Great. I am feeling frustrated and just plain sad that I don't have the sort of voice that I always wanted to have. I am pretty sure it's a phase and it will pass, but it means that I have been bursting out into tears after class, and feeling very down about it. I don't like feeling this way. I love to sing. I love it. When I was talking to my teacher, while breaking down, I said aloud something I had never even thought about before. I said it isn't fair to love something this much and to know that no matter how hard I try or work at it, it will never be what I want it to be. But there are worse things in life, and I am sure I will regain perspective. I hope.

The History of Sewing

I was taught to sew by my mom when I was very young. I remember making pillows with her at around 9 or so. In the 80's we would make our own seemingly fashionable tunic tops in colors like purple and magenta, fantastically simple creations which were like giant tubes with shoulders. What a feeling, indeed.

My stepmom nurtured the skill as I got older...and bought me my very own sewing machine when I was 19. It was the only gift I ever remember receiving from her and biodad, and it was during the era that I thought she was on my side. That Singer worked its ass off, I costumed show after show after show on it. I supported myself using that machine after college, when, upon the advice of a boyfriend, I decided to become a costume designer, based upon the desire to keep working in theater. Being an actress seemed impractical, and so, like usual, I put aside what I loved to do to be realistic. To make ends meet while being a mediocre freelance costumer, I worked at a great costume shop, where I often pretended to know way more about what I was doing than I actually did. I learned a lot about costumes, but even more about sewing...and thankfully my bosses loved me and were relatively happy to point me in the right direction when necessary.

When you are starting out, and working on your own, you do whatever is necessary to make it. Well, I did, anyway. I made umpteen Renaissance Faire costumes with it, for myself and to sell...I made wedding dresses, and bridesmaids dresses, and Rocky Horror costumes, and WeHo Costumes, and did alterations for everything from my grandma's slacks to the Red Shoe Diaries (yes, they wore *some* clothes). I took on sewing gigs, costume design gigs, dresser gigs, wardrobe supervision gigs, anything with regard to fabric or costumes, and I would do it. Eventually, I burnt out. Well, more like exploded. But regardless, the time came for me to be done and like the impatient girl that I am, I changed my profession almost overnight and started on the teacher track, leaving all my seamstressing behind.

Within a year I was engaged, and my future mother in law, an amazing quilter, inspired me to make a quilt for Michael as a wedding gift. She gave me some direction, the best being introducing me to an amazing quilt shop whose owner was a parent of a Y person. We got along swimmingly, and she helped me figure out what on earth I was going to do. I started quilting in April of 1997, and I never looked back. Clothes? Costumes? What were those? My rayons and velvets and corduroys and gauzes were all put away in bins to make room for my calicos and cottons and batting. The specificity and patterns and colors and art of it was just what I wanted...I was never good at the other stuff. I was good at this.

The next 11 years passed, I quilted, I made baby stuff, but I never went back to clothes the way I did before. I made some stuff for my kids, some pj's for friends and family, only things I felt like making. There have been custom quilt projects which drive me up a wall, but generally speaking, I feel pretty lucky to be able to invent and create the things that pop into my head.

For various reasons I have been taking on sewing gigs for things in the last few weeks which I haven't made for years. Belly dance costumes, kitchen curtains, Rennaissance Faire costumes...things keep falling into my lap and I've been making them. Sometimes I grumble a bit, but mainly that has to do with procrastination on my part, and overall I appreciate the work. Last night, I was working on some alterations, and I was actually proud of what I had made. It came out well, and I knew it would make my client happy. It inspired me this morning to get up and actually attack my own alterations, which so often just sit in a pile and get looked at, but never fixed. I actually made my happy pants into a happy skirt...something I have needed to do for months. And I feel like something changed, I can sew clothes again. It has changed from chore to creation. No, I am not giving up quilting...I am just excited to find joy in what was for so long a bore. Hopefully the laundry epiphany arrives tomorrow.