27 December 2010

I am sitting in the dining room, looking out toward the living room, stockings still hung by the chimney…toys and books and papers scattered everywhere you look. It is two days past Christmas, and here we are in that lovely, exhausted afterglow of so much time together. Light pours in from the windows, reflecting off the snow.  

About a week before Christmas, I made this small postcard to express my only wish for holidays: a little more time with you. The “you” is broadly defined… it includes all the different loved ones from dear Kirsten (who brings so much depth and color to my life) to the youngest addition, sweet Tate (his first Christmas, our first time around these rituals together) and everyone in between. 

Time is the great luxury for me – the ultimate gift. I have everything else I need, I suppose, and much of what I want. What I don’t have, I can make a plan for, scheme to get, reach for, find…or not. And I can watch the desires and the interests shift and change. But time…that is the hard one. I suppose it should come as no surprise. Isn’t it in the very nature of things that I would find myself, past the middle point of my life, longing, hoping, praying for more time? Time to listen. Time to sit. Time to draw and paint and read and write. Time to sew quilts like Rothko paintings and dresses for Tess. Time to try new recipes and time to sit at the dinner table, lingering over the last bit of wine from the bottle of red received as a gift for the holidays. 

Time is the one thing I long for, the last great desire. 

So as I enter the new year, make my resolutions and my intentions, I think I will try to find that time – slow down a bit more and watch more closely for the ways that I sabotage my own heart’s desire. I fully participate in filling up the schedule, in piling things to do on my plate, in staying busy and busier. Maybe this year I will focus a little more closely on what I think (or at least what I say) really matters to me. And, that list is fairly short. 

1. Time with friends and family for uninterrupted conversations, silence, and good games (I do love a good game!)
2. Time to read the many books I hope to read this year – from The Swan Thief to My Name is Red (I am way behind the NYTimes book list); from a little book on making little books to a cookbook called Where Flavor was Born
3. Speaking of cookbooks: Time cooking. In the last two years, I decided to teach myself to cook again (likely the result of such a small day-to-day dinner table now that we are empty-nesters and Kirsten has so little interest in food most of the time).
4. Time to walk the neighborhood.
5. Time to listen to silence, to listen to time pass. 

Of course, I will have to work every weekday and I will continue to paint and write everyday – like brushing my teeth, these things come naturally now. But, that feeling, that focusing on time and its treasures…that’s what I want. 

Suddenly, as I write this, I hope I am not offending you, or others who are older than me, who are closer to the last day than I am. Is it the folly of middle age to become so preoccupied with finitude? Or am I burdened by Kirsten’s health in some unique way? Has it made me more mindful of the end, of the horizon line moving into view? 

I do not know. 

I know only that the grace of these days is also the birthplace of what Frederick Buechner calls faith.  He says, “Faith is homesickness…a longing for home.” I think he is right. The longer I live, the more this faith rises up from the chaos as longing for time – time at home.  

Merry Christmas, Miss Kelly

All love, 

Amanda 

22 December 2010

Art Card #212 

watercolor and ink 

(c) 2010 Amanda Millay Hughes 

Yesterday was the big old biopsy at the hospital. The test went well enough - not too hard - just the way it goes, I guess, when you have to go ahead and do it. Something comes over me when I have to do a hard thing.  A kind of grace, I guess.  No matter how much I might want to talk myself out of it, oversleep, or run away, there is nothing to be done but get up on time, take a shower, put on clothes, a little makeup, shoes, coat, hat, grab the keys, and go. 

But I don't have to like it.

I am not the one who had a little slice of my liver pulled out, cut in half, and sent off to the lab.   


I have spent a lot of time in hospitals, more often than not as the companion to mothers,  father, children, friends, extended family, and partner. Time spent standing still, waiting, listening, making small talk, making as little noise as possible so one can rest, making the time pass with needlework, crossword puzzles, and books. And as these kinds of things go, yesterday was short - yesterday was, dare I say it, easy.  In the course of only four and a half hours: the check in, the first wait, the paperwork, the consent forms, the second wait, the doctor visit and talk, the procedure, the walk to the cafeteria, the breakfast, the pager buzzing, the wait, the release.  And when we left, we left with no news, no new information at all. We arrived together and we left together - me, Kirsten, and Emily...that will have to be enough for now. 

We don't know what will happen next - what the results will be: good, bad, or inconsequential.  For now, it is almost Christmas and all we can do is say yes and thank you.

These are the patterns of this little life - hard and easy, yes and thank you, up and down, back and forth. We make comfort and we make waves.  We sleep and we get up.   

Our pleasure is to do every day the work of that day, to cut our hair and not want blue eyes and to be reasonable and obedient. To obey and not split hairs. This is our duty and our pleasure… Every day we get up and say we are awake today. By this we mean that we are up early and we are up late. We eat our breakfast and smoke a cigar.


That is what Gertrude Stein said to Alice.  I say it, too. Emily must have been listening as it is listed as one of Emily's favorite quotes on one of her online profile pages. After all, it is the pattern of a life that matters. Not the single incident, not the lone test, but the pattern of a life...and as near as I can tell, patterns emerge slowly with their own strange beauty.  Our task - if there is a task at all - is to live these patterns, see them emerge, and find in them some whisper of God nestled in the duty and the pleasure of it all.  

19 December 2010

I started drawing this afternoon - funny little birds in cages. I have all those finches, of course, living in their cages near the dining room window. Maybe that's what got me started, but I don't think so. These are different birds and these are different cages.

It was Wescott Christmas this weekend, with all of Kirsten's extended family in from near and far for a weekend of frenzied fun. They always get together on the weekend before Christmas - and while this year, rightfully, we should have gone to Gainesville, Georgia for the party, everyone came here for reasons I will explain later...

In birth order, starting with the oldest of Kirsten's siblings, (all siblings will be bolded for clarity) the celebration included: Vicky and her husband Paul, Jennifer (V&P's oldest daughter) and Jennifer's sons Zach (17? and in the ROTC and his girlfriend Brook) and Jameson (2 - yes, that is not a typo!). V&P's other daughter is Gretchen - she is married to Bill - and while they have no children, (although Bill has two grown children from a previous marriage) they do have Gus - a wonderful little dog - who appears to be quite fond of Annie (our chocolate lab) and Henry (our lost and found Pekingese). Gus came for the weekend, too. Now, then, Ande and Jimmy, their son Jamie and his wife Eang, their two children, Harrison and Olivia. Then add Robin (A&J's daughter) and her boyfriend Adam and his son Marcus. Robin brought her friend Gemee (I don't know how to spell her name) and her children E-J and Jordan. And of course, Dusty and Fran and Margie and Charlie and then Kirsten and me. We had the grand-babies overnight (Jennifer and Duane and Tess and Tate are off to Disney World for a week, and since Jenn and Duane still sing in their band, the babies were here and they picked them up at 6am to make their 7:30 flight from RDU). So when I add it all up, including birds and dogs - let's see - at moments there were 36 sentient beings in this little house at one time. Just to set your mind at ease, no, they did not all sleep here!

There were cookies and sodas and martinis and a lot of red wine, white wine, and a trip to the Dog House around the corner for their very odd red hot dogs with all the fixins'. Fran hosted dinner and the gift exchange - with Turkey and Ham and mashed potatoes. Ande made macaroni salad and deviled eggs and this marvelous dessert with chocolate pudding, cool whip, and brownies that melts in your mouth and does something wonderful to your spirit as well. I made last-minute, doctored-up green beans - the Southern way - with fried bacon and onion and salt and pepper in the pan with the beans and the water, cooked until they are well, they are still green, but just barely! Oh, and Adam and Marcus brought some sort of quesadilla cheese dip that you swear you will only have a little of and say so every time you go back for more. Jennifer (Zach's mom) brought an enormous box of cookies - a box big enough to put away all your winter hats, scarves, gloves, and socks - though not big enough to include the sweaters! All homemade, from peanut butter kisses to chocolate chip to rice krispy squares. And yes, almost all the food was gone by the end of the day.

The decision to hold Wescott Christmas in North Carolina again this year, when, as I mentioned, rightfully, we should have been in Georgia, was made because of Ande's recent neurosurgery. The scar is big - though healing well - and she seems to be recovering at a record pace (she has been Christmas shopping several times since she was released from the hospital two weeks ago).

I love this family. It is big and loud and raucous and their love for one another (and for me) is profound. There is something that is both exhausting and encouraging about being with them all, all at once. No conversations are ever complete - every story is filled with interruptions. There is always a need to run to the store for one more thing - and often a need to go shopping in some general sense, for this, for that, for anything. There is a lot of laughter and a lot of hugging and a lot of joy and chaos and magic in it. A magic that I hope I am learning from them.

It is particular. It is remarkable. I find myself silent and exhausted when they leave, and I know my children are coming home for the holidays and we will be together too. As I wait for their arrival, I find myself so aware of how powerful a big family and a big familial love can be. It is not that there are no conflicts or dramas or eye rolling...of course, all those things are part of the time. It is not all smooth sailing - things spill and the boat rocks. But, behind it all is the absolute assurance that this family will be there for one another...no matter what.

On Tuesday of this coming week, we will get up early and head to the hospital for the Kirsten's biopsy. I am not looking forward to it and neither is she. But somehow, knowing that this band of Wescotts will be there for us, with us, in it, facing it, whatever it is, down with us - made Wescott Christmas extra special for me this year. There is a verse in the King James Version of the Bible - Psalm 68.6, I think - somewhere deep in the psalms, embedded in among more familiar lines - that reads: The Lord has set the solitary into families.
Left to my own devices, I am pretty confident that I would be solitary - and yet, the Lord set me into this family...this wide and deep and loud and wonderful family. I am so grateful. Sometimes I feel like the "odd bird" in the mix, coming from such a small and reserved family. But, I also feel loved and loving when I am with them. It is remarkable and I am convinced it is something only God could have done with my life. Without this resetting, I think I might be more or less like the blue bird in the funky cage... a big old bird in a little cage.

It is the fourth Sunday of Advent and here we are.... Everyone has gone back to their homes, the street is dark and quiet. I am headed into the kitchen to make a little dinner, feed the dogs, pick up a little bit more, pour a glass of wine, and light the fourth candle in the advent wreath on the dining room table. Emily arrives in the morning - she will go with us to the hospital, and I will let you know how it goes.

But, in the meantime, 'know what?
I wish you were here.
Love you
Amanda

14 December 2010

Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!

Do you remember that moment in The Wizard of Of Oz when Dorothy and her companions enter the forest and begin to manage their anxiety by chanting what they were afraid of? More and more that is what the brouhaha about Hide/Seek (the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery) is starting to sound like. Let's all chant our fears...and see what happens. Sadly, I am afraid, very little will come of the chanting.

I have been watching for the last ten days as editorials and statements fly across the pages of the New York Times, blogs, and the Smithsonian's website. And I find myself wondering: How many people would have noticed this exhibition if the Catholic League had not responded with such a silly cry of "hate speech" and a plea for the removal of one disturbing video by an artist most of us know nothing about? What was the leadership of Smithsonian thinking when they agreed to pull the object from the exhibition - and remove the pdf version of the brochure from the exhibition's website? Why not fight the good fight and draw attention to the integrity of the Institution and its commitment to bringing the ideas of artists, even controversial ideas, to the broadest possible audience? And, in my opinion, kudos to the AAMD, the Warhol Foundation, and Charles Haynes at the First Amendment Center for saying, as my dad used to say, Just a damn minute. This is not about hate speech - this is about censorship.

But wait...Without all this fuss, exactly how many art historians, contemporary artists, art critics, and visitors might (and I do mean might) be talking about this work now? How many might have considered what the work of art was about and who the artist was and why anyone should care? This controversy has more people talking about a work they may never have seen, more people searching for the video on YouTube, more people asking about it than even the most optimistic curator could have hoped for.

I work in an art museum. I help manage messages every day. This year, I met with members of the outreach committee from the local Hillel when we decided to display a bust of Hitler. I worked with our director of communications to reach out to others in the community who might disapprove. We did the hard work of talking with real people and building relationships that encourage understanding of the limits and potentials of work of art and the role of museums in public discourse. At the end of the day, the bust was installed with no fanfare at all. No protests, no editorials, no controversy. Contextualized with wall labels and displayed appropriately, the Hitler bust offers one look at the ways in which works of art can create and promote people and personalities, dreams and fantasies, critiques and congratulations...some good and some not good.

Didn't anyone at the Smithsonian see this coming? You can see their reaction, their ever so carefully crafted Q&A on this at http://www.npg.si.edu/docs/SIQ&A.pdf and I can imagine the conversation between the legal department, the director, and curators, as well as a handful of professional communicators as they massaged every phrase, parsed and nuanced every word. But when I click on the link, I, for one, see the sign Dorothy faced in the forest:

I'd turn back if I were you!

After all, the posted pdf seems rife with fear - fear of losing federal funding, fear of offending, fear of so many things. But apparently no fear of the chilling effect of censorship.

I wonder what my Dad would have said...sitting in his high-back chair in the country house in Connecticut. I am sure he would have had an opinion about the Catholic Church, about questions of same-sex love and portraits of difference. Even opinions about censorship. But from where I sit, and I do sit in that very chair for family dinners and high holy days now, it seems like a lot of noise about a small work that, sadly, without this controversy, would have been seen by relatively few and too easily forgotten. Without this controversy, how many would know that the artist was talking about isolation, loneliness, marginalization, about human suffering within the context of the relentless cycles of life - like the movement of ants across a crucifix, completely unaware of the sacrifice it symbolizes?

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Everyone is chanting. But what is the real fear? That maybe, left on our own, left out in the garden of our individual suffering, we are too much like that crucifix? Quickly forgotten and covered in nothing by the passage of time?

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. What are we so afraid of?

I think we should be more afraid of censorship than controversy. I think we should all keep talking about it, whatever "it" is, keep asking questions, keep wondering aloud, keep asking ourselves what are we really afraid of? Lions? Tigers? Bears? Really? Is that all?

Okay, enough. Thanks for listening.
Love you
Amanda

December 9, 2010

art card #282
watercolor, pencil, ink
(c) 2010 Amanda Millay Hughes

Back from two whirlwind days in New York, I am making a cup of tea and thinking about the things I learned while I was there.

First, and perhaps foremost, I am beginning to understand how to navigate the underworld of the Metro. Now, before I go too far into this discussion, I do know that everyone in NYC who rides the Metro thinks that it is relatively easy and everyone who never rides the Metro thinks it is impossible. I fall somewhere in the middle. When I am with the children (Emily and Will are both masters of the Metro game plan!), I don't have to notice the finer points of this endeavor - they do it for me. For example, I do not have to pay attention to which side of the platform I should be waiting on, whether this is an express or local train, and whether where I want to go is on this train line. I just enjoy their company, note the many passengers who I think could teach a thing or two about Buddhist meditation to recalcitrant students, myself included, and ride along. But, alone - well that is a different story. Having traveled through many of the major cities of Europe without the benefit of a common language, I have never felt as lost as I have sometimes, oftentimes, felt in the New York City Metro.

But this time, I took my map, and read carefully, and noted where I was and where I needed to go, bought my pass, boarded my trains and made it to my destinations on time and without drama. I feel totally victorious.

I am even willing to admit that I liked it - this feeling of independence and mobility...this knowing that I could get anywhere (almost) if I was willing to walk a little on either end of the dark tunnels and stairs and noise and cold.

I do think that the New York Transit authority should put compass roses at the entrance/exits of all the subway stops so that no one has to stand there like an idiot on a cloudy day trying to figure out which way is west....but that's just me.

Second, I learned that the Christmas windows are as beautiful as all the movies and the hype suggest. Bergdorf Goodman in particular...oh you should see them! These extraordinary windows with giant maps and antique cameras and swans and gorgeous animals and pretty things all presented in a sort of 1940's fantasy of the Grand Tour! I loved it....marvelous! And the lights! Everywhere lights and the dusting of cold (it was very cold).

I went to Trinity Wall Street to see my dear friend, the Reverend Mark Bozutti-Jones. We talked, and then rushed from his office to the church for the Eucharist at 12:05, then off to lunch and up to see his apartment...and the balcony that overlooks the Hudson River. Standing with my back to the glass door, at just about 10:00 on the clock face of my vision - there is the statue of liberty and straight across the river the Colgate clock. Remarkable. A little boy from Jamaica now with a million dollar view of the Hudson River.

I saw the children, made my way to the MET for my visit with Rothko - hate to go to New York without a visit to see these paintings - they break my heart; I find them so beautiful. Walked through an exhibition of Steiglitz, Steichen, and Strand. Loved it. Remembered again how fortunate we are to own the lamp housing from Steichen's darkroom (Thanks, Dad). Even in the cold, even fighting off a cold...I loved it.

But I love being home even more.

Do you remember that Dad used to say:"New York is a terrible place to visit and a wonderful place to live?" I think I understand this now more than I did years ago. When you don't live there, you have no where to go when you are tired and cold - no where but into a taxi, or a restaurant for another overpriced cup of coffee, or into another museum or a library (I have done all these things in the last few years in between meetings with donors). But when you live there you have all of that - all that excellence, all those people, all those metro stops, all those questions - AND a place to settle in among your own things... your own coffee... your own art...

Emily told me recently that she read a blog - or maybe a print article - that suggested if you want to live in New York you must ask yourself three questions:

1) Do you want to be surrounded by the very best?
2) Do you want to be the best in your field?
3) Do you want to be happy?

The first two questions must be answered with a resounding yes or New York will exhaust you. And the third must be answered with a quiet no...being happy cannot be the most important thing if you want to live in the City.

The questions have engaged me and I hope I am remembering them correctly because if I am, I can answer yes to all three AND live in North Carolina.

I do want to be surrounded by the very best - but the best I choose is friends and family. Grandbabies and companions, sweet Kirsten and her extraordinary family...they are the best and they are here.

I would like to be the best in my field - but my field is not so much professionally fixed in a location, as it is personal, relational, a kind of wanderlust and romp through art and ideas, and that, as Dad also used to say, you can do anywhere that Fed Ex delivers. Today, he would say "anywhere with a laptop and wifi!" And I have that here.

Finally, I do want to be happy - not all the time silly, giddy. But I do value that joyful gratitude that overtakes me sometimes - and yes, it feels like happiness and that is good enough.

So, I am very glad to be home - with my tea in my cup, my quiet office, my little house wrapped around me. The lights are on the Christmas tree.

and of course, I wish you were here...

Always yours
Amanda

PS. You can see the windows at the Bergdorf Goodman Blog

1 Dec 2010 A Painting a Day

artcard #269
watercolor & ink
(c) 2010 Amanda Millay Hughes

You asked me if I am still painting, and I answered yes.

I would hardly know who I am if I didn't spend a little time every day on this old habit.

Early in the morning, I spend that first quiet hour with my cup of coffee, paper and paints, before news, phone calls, email, and breakfast.

For the past few years, one of the outcomes of this has been Art Cards. Its a kind of movement among amateur and a few professional artists (I posted a little about this on iamnotrothko a long time ago, I think). But, these little 2.5 X 3.5 in paintings are more or less a visual journal and at last count (yesterday morning), I was at 324. Every card is numbered, though not dated.

As a little aside: it is quite unlike me really to omit the date; I tend toward obsessive compulsion when it comes to the date. Journal entries, for example, are meticulously marked with date, time, location - and sometimes the weather.

It has been a long time since I spread out all these little cards. I chose this one randomly, just pulled it out of the box. Individually they are like post it notes - seen together they are almost a portrait. A little like the dabs in a Chuck Close drawing. You have to step back a bit to really see the whole picture even though each spot on the grid may well be complete in and of itself.

The little cards are like postcards - sent from me to me. They tell me something about this little life - just like a postcard from St. Paul's cathedral or Emerald Isle or New York City. By the way, I love postcards. Have a mini collection of those too - and welcome more!

Next time I see you, I will bring them with me - we can spread them out, drink a little wine, nosh on a little something-something and talk. Who knows how many I will have by then - but they are small and travel very lightly - a little like me, I think, when we first met.

Love you,
Amanda