Category: gratitude

  • The Big Show

    The Big Show

    One just can’t help getting one’s hopes up when entering shows. You read the call, you think “Wow! Piece of Cake! That’s exactly the kind of art I do anyway!”

    If , on the other hand I said, “Wow! That is one tough call. I WILL REALLY HAVE TO DIG DEEP AND PUSH MY LIMITS…” Now, this would be the scenario where I could create a masterpiece.

    I recently entered a call where membership was a requirement… I have done this type before, but not when funds are low. Because now you have, not only the entry fee, but the membership dues as well. (It’s funny, non artists are often shocked that it ‘costs money?!?’ to enter an art show.) Well, this one seemed right up my “art alley”. I had experience, I had won shows like this before. PIECE OF CAKE! I’M A SHOO IN! (Or is it a Shoe in?) So I dove in. Headfirst. Knocked off a Statement lickety-split. Sent a sample of my work and the entry and membership fee without a backward glance, and it was just a week or so before they would notify me of my big check in the mail.

    Ah….about that big check… Not only did I not win, I did not even qualify to participate!

    Hear that hissing sound? Pffffffffffffffttttt….That’s the sound of all the air coming out of my big head. Oh, Miss Overconfidence, you not feeling so good, hmmm? Kind of sicklee?

    YOU DESERVE THE LETDOWN, YOU GOOF!!!!

    Yes, I know that now. I realize how nonchalant I was. I couldn’t even take the time to ask anyone how to send the entry in properly, so I sent the wrong sample work. Too proud to let the judges know I needed help. Such a big, fine, famous, sought-after artist like me!

    My job, now that I’m done licking my wounds, is to dust off my britches and learn everything I can from the artists who did get in the show. Be a good sport, celebrate their success and do better next time. Every setback is a stepping stone to bigger and better things!!

    (Just not too much bigger or better!)

    Sigh…ANYhoo, I finally finished the commission I have been working on since the beginning of December. (whew!) The ‘million dollar by the hour’ painting…Now there is another learning experience. I had a mentor who was a top shelf oil painter tell me to start out charging 22 bucks an hour plus materials, as this was the wages for skilled labor at that time; and “don’t feel sorry for asking for what you are worth!!!”

    Those wise words did not stick for some reason…every client is my “friend” and every “friend” wants a “deal”…So I run around making what boils down to about 4 dollars an hour and whining about being “cheated”. Nobody likes a whiner, least of all me. I’m always having to settle for cheap paint, cheap canvas, cheep cheep goes the birdee.

    I have made up my mind (again) to work on art that frees my mind and my spirit. Not beholden to any one style or genre or “ism”. Art that celebrates my vision, my unique vision. Hooray!

  • IN the Mirror

    IN the Mirror

    recognizing my BIPOLAR self image

    “A Big Beak”…by Susan T. Martin

    I’m in “Wonderland” right now. Been here for a week or so. Time seems to be inching by, my head too heavy to lift off the pillow. Not sick physically, I’m just…just…what can I tell you? I have had some unknown trigger going me headlong into a timewarp. Into a place I never ever wanted to return to…

    Is the reflection REAL?

    My art, from it’s earliest inception, has contained 2 sided faces. Always compelled to create a smiling side juxtaposed to a moody/dark side. Even before I consciously knew the face was symbolically my own, before I had ever heard of mental illness or anyone called manic depressive illness bipolar, I was painting my double sided inner person. I have doodles and sketches from grade school where this manifested…it was a necessary act to portray my protagonist self this way. This was the girl inside of me, who would soon find ways to hide from physical reality in altered states…

    The inner struggle raged on in imagination…detail of “The Sentinel’s Prayer” by Susan T. Martin2018

    After the traumatic events of my young life had begun, my self-image became warped and twisted. My mental despair manifested itself in self harming behavior: anorexia/bulemia, punching walls, suicide attempts…to this day, nearly 50 years after the onset of the abuse, I still cannot eat without feeling ugly afterwards.

  • Birds of Paradise

    Birds of Paradise

    A short story by Susan T. Martin…

    She was never very confident. Her mother said she was ‘pretty’. She did not believe her. She didn’t want to be ‘pretty’, anyway. No. She wanted to be ‘breathtaking’, achingly ‘beautiful’, devastatingly ‘gorgeous’. A ‘real heartbreaker’, ‘homewrecker’, a ‘ten’. A ‘perfect’ ten.

    Like Tracy. Her best friend with the huge blue eyes and pretty lips, nice hips and long, long hair. But she was none of those things that Tracy was. She had a sneaking suspicion that her mother was lying about ‘pretty’ as well.

    The boys did not say she was pretty. Not that she liked them. Only one. Joey. He was super smart. Super duper smart. Almost as smart as she was. But smart didn’t rate very high in her circle of giggly little girlfriends. It especially didn’t rate with Tracy who thought being smart was ‘stupid’ and ‘a drag’. A drag with a roll of the eyes added on.

    It seemed she was just doomed to be a ‘bookworm’, which was a term that also elicited an eye roll from Tracy and the gigglers.

    Oh, how she loved her books. She longed to go to the exotic places depicted in her ‘National Geographic’ magazine that her dad had ordered for her. He thought she was beautiful, but not in the ‘Tracy’ way. No, dad said she was beautiful for her brains, her intelligence. This made her feel very good. Her and her dad would walk in the garden and he would point out different creatures and plants for her to name, from her study books in the library. Oh, that’s a salamander…or, That one is a chickadee. His eyes glistened when she got this right, especially his beloved songbirds. He could whistle just like them, he knew every call. She could not whistle, because her tooth was missing in the front. He said he would make sure the tooth fairy knew that she had to have a mouth that would whistle for her next birthday. It was coming up soon, so she was excited.

    Something bad happened that next month, tho’. Her daddy had a heart attack and died, and mom said he had gone away to a better place, in heaven. She didn’t get to tell him that the tooth fairy gave her a whistle, or that she could now tweet, almost as good as he did. She didn’t believe that heaven business, her dad said that heaven was a place where the birds lived, not dead people.

    She spent a lot of time alone that winter, walking alone in the garden. She would whistle all the time, and learn about new animals and birds. She dreamed about her father every night, sometimes she would sleepwalk.

    One cold, rainy February night she had an especially bad night. In her dream her dad was locked out of the house. He was calling to her, from the garden, and in her dream she wanted to fly down to him, like a beautiful exotic bird. She knew if he saw her, all arrayed in bright and glorious feathers, that he would be saved, and they would be together again. If only she could just fly down there. She started whistling and flapping her arms, and running to the window, still asleep, she fell thru the glass with a crash, landing unconscious in the garden below. Her bedraggled wet little body, so twisted and broken, was rushed to the hospital.

    They said she would not be the same if she ever woke up. But they did not know that deep inside her amazing little mind, she was just fine. Her and her dad had both learned how to fly, and they tweeted happy little birdsongs back and forth as they flitted about a magnificent garden.

    ‘my year as a bird’ digital painting ©Susan T. Martin 2021