This weekend marks the fifth year of Forgeries@Froggwell and, in my not-so-humble opinion, it’s going to be a doozy of a show. What began as sort of a visual bón mót has grown to be a much-anticipated biannual event.
From small, quiet sketches to all-out virtuoso feats of painterly brilliance, this show has something for everyone. The exhibition features more than 30 artists, with works ranging from Ernest H. Shepard’s sketches for “The House at Pooh Corner,” to Vermeer’s “Woman in a Red Hat” and a Francis Bacon self-portrait.
From “The House at Pooh Corner” by Anne Belov after E H Shepard; pencil on paper
The question of “why” always comes up when I talk about the show. One answer is that it’s a whole lot of fun, not to mention a challenge. I can’t answer for every artist in the show, but for me, it boils down to a couple of things: I think that visual artists learn by looking rather than reading about how to do something. Trying to replicate what they see visually requires lots of trial and error, decision-making, and experimentation.
Self-portrait by Bruce Morrow after Francis Bacon; oil on canvas
One might ask, where is the challenge of copying something that another artist has done, something that already exists. I say, go ahead and try it, then get back to me about how easy you thought that was. (Hint: It’s not.) You have to try to enter into another artist’s mind: How did they mix that color? What kind of brush did they use? How did they make that line? Is that color achieved by layering or mixing? What decisions did they make to achieve that mood?
Portait of Berthe Morisot by David Maclean after Edouard Manet; Oil on canvas
For centuries, artist training was a process of apprenticeships and making master copies. You trained your eye as well as your hand to translate what you saw onto the canvas. You learned color theory and how to work with specific materials in a way that transcends those materials. If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.
You won’t want to miss this year’s show. It celebrates the diversity of artistic expression as well as the varied influences that have inspired, instructed, and excited the participating artists. It may give you added insights as you view this year’s exhibition and think about each artist’s own original works.
Not to mention that Froggwell Garden is a much more convenient excursion than heading to The Louvre or The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
This year’s show will be held at Froggwell Garden, 5508 Double Bluff Road in Freeland; Friday through Sunday; August 4, 5, and 6 from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Parking is limited, so please carpool if possible.
All illustrations are courtesy of the artists participating in Forgeries@Froggwell 2017.
Enjoy more articles in the print edition of Whidbey Life Magazine, which you can purchase at local and off-island retailers or receive in the mail via subscription.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. You may link to this story. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, please contact us.
I recently returned from what I would have to call a very improbable journey. When I first dipped my toes into the fast-moving stream of social media, it was reluctantly and with great trepidation.
(c) 2017 Anne Belov
What if everyone out there is a complete weirdo?
What if no one reads my blog?
What if they think I’m a complete weirdo???
I started my blog (The Panda Chronicles) to share my panda cartoons with a wider audience than whoever I could catch unawares in the produce aisles of Payless, waving a stack of cartoons in the air. I joined Facebook to see if people who didn’t know me would think they were funny.
I went to my first Panda Convention in 2013. Some of the people coming were familiar with my cartoons.
Would they like me?
Would I like them?
(c) 2017 Anne Belov
You can pretend to be anyone you want when you are hiding behind your computer. It’s another story when you step through the looking glass into the real world.
But here’s the thing: when you share a common interest, social media is like this amazing coffee shop, where everyone is table hopping and you can meet some fabulous people there. Okay, yeah, there are some dark corner tables way in the back, where there are some people you would rather not meet alone in a dark alley, but for the most part, the people I have met as a result of jumping into the social media pool are pretty wonderful, in person as well as online.
It’s not just the panda people either. (Attack of the Panda People sounds like a sci-fi movie, doesn’t it?) I belong to an organization for writers and illustrators of books for children: SCBWI. While I initially met many people IRL (in real life) at one of their conferences, I’ve gotten to know far more writers from this group online. Some of the folks in one of my groups have made an effort to meet in person, and the other writers in the mentorship program I took part in last year keep in touch through email, Twitter, and Facebook.
There seems to be a fluidity to these on- and offline friendships. They are no less real than the ones that happen because you sat next to someone in sixth grade, or because you had a random stranger as a roommate at college. It’s the accidental nature of the universe that brings forth surprising gifts.
Earlier this year, I did a fundraising campaign for several of my favorite causes. Those who donated got a signed cartoon, with a hand-drawn sketch in thanks. Some who donated were familiar names, but more than half of the people who contributed were people I had never interacted with. Some of them had been reading my cartoons for years and had all my books! It was gratifying, to say the least.
While my herding dog instincts make me want to gather all these folks together so I can have them with me always, I know this is not even remotely possible. But it is a remarkable thing, that almost everywhere I go, I can send out a message through cyberspace, and say, “Hey! I’m coming to your town. Want to meet for coffee?”
(c) 2017 Anne Belov
An online friend from Australia is going to visit me IRL this summer. And a group of friends I have made as a result of going to that first Panda Convention? We’re going to China later this year to visit the panda bases (aka panda ranches), where we will see herds of baby pandas!
If that doesn’t qualify as being amazing, I don’t know what does!
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. You may link to this story. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Even at the best of times, an artist’s income is precarious.
I always have the feeling that the painting I just sold might be the last for a while. This is not complaining. It’s just the way it is, and I signed up for this, full-well knowing that this is the deal. Making art is not for sissies.
What is hard, especially in times of social upheaval, is when you want to contribute, but your income can barely stretch to your mortgage and groceries, let alone a generous donation to an organization you believe in. I used to do the art auction thing, until I realized it was counter-productive to actually making a living at art. Don’t get me wrong. My donations went to support organizations I like, but if everyone buys their art at auctions … well … it just doesn’t pencil out very well for the artists in most cases.
“Harvest Trio” oil on linen, (Photo courtesy of Anne Belov)
Over the years I’ve tried to come up with creative ways to contribute. The key, for me, is to think of my donation as an extra gift that comes as a thank-you gift for contributing more than the actual value of a piece. Think of the coffee cup you get for contributing $120 or more to your public radio station. So I was really excited when I read of cartoonist Sara Gliddon, who had come up with a great plan to generate donations for the ACLU. She started the ball rolling and many other comics artists took her idea and ran with it, so I did too. I tweaked the idea a little, but the gist is the same. Make a donation, send me proof, and I’ll send you a cartoon, signed and sketched upon. A (much) larger donation will get you an original cartoon that previously appeared on my blog.
It’s working out great so far, and I will be keeping the offer going for the whole month of February.
Really, I try…. (From The Panda Chronicles by Anne Belov)
I never cease to be awed at the generous spirit of most creative people I know. And I have met so many more of them in the virtual world of social media. They are generous not only with their art, but also with information about their process and knowledge. While I am grateful that I live in a community full of artists and writers, we’re mostly too busy with real life to have all that much face-to-face time, although we try to make an effort.
Maybe it reminds me of the pen pals I used to have back in the olden days. You know, you’d have to write an actual letter, put it in an envelope, put stamps on it, mail it, then wait (and wait and wait) for a reply. The internet makes it easy to have these kinds of interactions all around the world, and, you can have them in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep, wearing your pajamas! Some of these people I may never meet, and some of them I have, or will in the future. (There will probably be a post about that later this year!)
Letters from our fans (by Anne Belov)
These may feel like the worst of times right now. Societal upheaval is hard on everyone. Vulnerable people are under attack. But artists are rising to the challenge. To contribute. To make beautiful things. To make us laugh. In addition to feeling gratitude for the donations made in my honor, I am profoundly touched by the emails I’ve received. Here are some of my favorite comments:
“Huzzah!! This is an absolutely fabulous idea. I love your cartoons and have all of your books … Again, thanks for all the panda laughs in these troubling times …”
“Please do know that I appreciate your illustrations so much, more so since the election, after which I’ve had precious little to smile about.”
“Can I just say that The Panda Chronicles are always high points in my week, and they really help to keep me sane?”
So, thank you Sara Gliddon for instigating this uprising of cartoonists! We are stronger together (especially if we’re laughing.)
Anne Belov lives and works on Whidbey Island, in an undisclosed location. Her paintings can be seen at The Rob Schouten Gallery at Greenbank Farm and at The Fountainhead Gallery on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle. You can find her peculiarly political panda satire at Your Brain on Pandas, and her books at Moonraker Books in Langley or on Amazon. Feel free to follow on Twitter where she is @pandachronicle and visit The Institute for Contemporary Panda Satire on Facebook. No pandas (or cats) were harmed in writing this post.
__________________
The views, opinions, and positions expressed by Whidbey Life Magazine bloggers, as well as those of the people who comment on their blog posts, are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the views, opinions, or positions of Whidbey Life Magazine.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. You may link to this story. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Children of my flesh and bone and children of my heart and soul—
Today, the rain falls on Honeymoon Bay in big, heavy drops, like the tears I’ve been crying since that Tuesday, when the color went out of the world.
The sky and the water are indivisible from each other and from where I sit and write you now, I cannot see through their blank grey veils. And I think to myself, if I cannot see beyond that concrete emptiness, just outside my own window, what can I say to you now, in words, that can offer solace, meaning, hope in a world picture that feels so bereft of truth, beauty, kindness, mutual respect, possibilities for the future—all the good things we, as parents and elders, want for you. How can I say to you: Don’t give up, when I feel so close to that edge myself?
Veils Vanquish Sky (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
I can say this:
Because of you, I will not give up. I am standing with you; I am grieving with you. My broken heart breaks with yours. I will not desert you. I will stick with you, I will defend you in any way I personally can, from the bullies in the schoolyard, in the neighborhood, in big or small business, and in the highest offices of government.
Especially when the bullies appear to run the show—I will stand up and call them out. I will not be silenced by their intimidations, their threats and rhetoric of interruption and deceit, their racism, their misogyny, their bigoted mindsets. I will call it out every time I hear it, see it, experience it—I will not let the bully pass unnoticed; I will bear witness. I will call out injustice with you and for you, in any way I can, until I die.
I can say that to you.
Forest for the Trees (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
And I can share this with you:
In the past few days, since the end of the world as we knew it, I have been cycling through the stages of grieving and expect to do so for several weeks to come. Here’s what to expect, if these mental states are foreign or new to you, as I expect they might be.
Death of a loved one, death of a dream, death of an ideal or dearly held belief—we do not ever expect that stranger at our door, telling us the sad news. Young or old, death of any kind is always a surprise. Even when we are watching it, day by day, as elders pass away before our eyes or civil rights, in the course of a lifetime, in the so-called name of “civil liberty,” are vanquished before our eyes—Death is always unexpected.
Unexpected Outcome (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
More than 50 percent of the country is experiencing this state of grief. More than 50 percent of the people who voted, that is—since only 50 percent of the population exercised that most essential civil right—we who did are together in the group mourning a loss that feels like 9-11 all over again. A metaphorical jumbo jet slamming into the side of our country, our poor beleaguered, divided, confused country—leaves us stunned and reeling with its improbability.
Door to Limited View (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
We are grieving and have the right to do so. Here are the stages (from recover-from-grief.com), in case you need a list to cross off as you go along or, more likely, check all that apply:
1. Shock and Denial
We can’t believe it. We don’t believe it. We keep thinking it’s a dream and we’ll wake up and it won’t be true. In my particular case, every possible conspiracy theory I have ever conjured seems more than likely to apply.
Shifting Skies (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
2. Pain and Guilt
We can’t believe how bad we feel. How responsible. Or irresponsible, as the case may be. I feel very guilty that this seizure of our democratic process has happened out of my control, and I feel somehow it is my fault. That is also part of the grieving process—repeating mantras of regret: if only, if only, if only…
Longer View (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
It is OK to let yourself feel that, too. Let it be a stimulus not for self-denigration, but for self-motivation, to galvanize yourself for what is next. Determine to do the right thing, no matter what. In the smallest details of your life, do what you know, in your heart, is the right thing. Think of the butterflies brewing hurricanes—feel a super-storm coming? Four years is not as long as you feel it is right now. Two years, when midterm elections take place, is even shorter. Many of you I am writing to now were not old enough to vote. Most of you, in four years, will be. Don’t forget to.
Wind Moves Water (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
3. Anger and Bargaining
Yes, we are mad. Of course we are mad! What do we do to balance the rage we feel?
Keep our cool. Keep our dreams. Keep our hopes. Point our eyes up to the sky, not down on the ground. Share our fears, pursue their roots. Keep it together, together.
In the Details 1 (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
4. Depression, Reflection, Loneliness
Trust me, you are not alone in your feelings. When a death in the family happens, which this election is to me and every person I know, we are pretty sure no one is as sad about it as we are. Look around. Grief-stricken faces are everywhere. Take comfort: you are not alone. The time for reflection is the time to find the thread of connection. Reject the abyss. Swim hard. Feel like you are drowning in sorrow and self-pity? Kick harder to stay afloat. There’s no future in drowning! Resist the urge to give up, to give in, to throw away the gift of your human life. Be more alive than ever. See, feel, learn from everything—even this.
In the Details 2 (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
5. The Upward Turn
Here’s where I’m at with this stage—I am trying to find the right boat to row to get there. The day after we saw that red door and wanted to paint it black, it was a friend’s birthday. He was celebrating his sixtieth, and we drove to South Seattle to join him and others with whom we knew we could sigh, cry, and even, at one point, share a primal scream. Among those in attendance were people who have actively worked, the majority of their lives, to make a better world. There were people there who have put their money where their mouth is—for environmental protection, community-building, youth empowerment, and the alleviation of suffering—all on both a local and global basis. How lucky I was to have such a deep-hearted community to turn to in this time of crisis.
You out there, my kids of all kinds, my beloved children near and far—pull yourselves together, for and with each other. Decline the urge to hurt yourselves, each other, or unknown others. Choose to hold steady to your course, to your dream, to the details of your plan to make progress, moment by moment, day by day, in the ways you can, because this is what we have right now—this and only this moment. Each moment is embedded in the next. When crossing the narrow mountain pass from who we were to who we are becoming, don’t be shy about speaking your mind. Don’t be cowed to silence. Scream if you have to. Be heard. I am listening. Others are listening. Please—listen to each other and refrain from harm.
In the Details 3 (Photo by Judith Walcutt
6. Reconstruction and Working Through
Apparently, when you reach this point, your mind will begin to function again, and you will start working on the problems you had before all this grief came down around you. And you know what? That is the best solution of all. Pick up the life you were working on before all this happened and keep working on it. Remember—no one can take your dream from you. Your dream, your aspiration, your goal is yours. Don’t let anyone—most especially bigots, racists, misogynists, etc.— take your dreams and aspirations away from you. Just don’t.
Natural Resilience (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
7. Acceptance and Hope
I know it seems hard to imagine, at this exact moment, that we can accept this state of affairs and that someday we will find something to be hopeful about, for what lies unseen, unknown, on the other side of the concrete sky.
But that’s just it. We don’t know, and so we have to imagine and in imagining, we can find the juice to carry on. When things have been bad in the past—and they have been personally, nationally, and globally bad for many for quite some time, we have had to remind ourselves that just like the weather that blows across our field of vision, the sky will change. All of this will change. And at any given moment, we are only seeing part of the picture. We have to hold out for a longer, broader view.
For me, I look forward to pursuing the work I believe in, no matter what, even more than ever. That work consists of working tirelessly with others who are working tirelessly to do what we can, to say “yes” instead of “no.”
No one yet has been able to stop another person from having an idea or from holding onto “the thing with feathers,” the Hope we had and will have again.
We can continue unabated and uncensored, to have ideas which lift us up instead of cast us down, ideas which light up some huge part of the brain, because the internal chemical reaction of human invention and imagination cannot be stopped once it gets going. Each time we have an idea of our own, we are generating our own fuel to stay afloat, to do our lifetime justice in how we spend it.
Afloat Under the Mourning sky (Photo by Judith Walcutt
I think often these recent days of H.H. the Dali Lama. I think of the many years—the majority of his lifetime, in fact—that he has born the theft of his homeland by the bully next door. He is both a good man and a great moral compass for us all to follow. In these recent days since November 8, I find myself reading and rereading this quote of his which, yes, gives me hope and the will to go on. Now. More than ever.
“Never give up
No matter what is going on
Never give up
Develop the heart
Too much energy in your country is spent developing the mind instead of the heart
Be compassionate not just to your friends but to everyone
Be compassionate
Work for peace in your heart and in the world
Work for peace and I say again
Never give up
No matter what is happening
No matter what is going on around you
Never give up.”
Judith Walcutt is a writer, a youth mentor, and a recommitted social activist living on Whidbey Island. She is working with the Center for Progressive Reform to create a national radio program addressing issues of good governance and environmental protection, health, and safety.
The impermanent state of being (Photo by Judith Walcutt)
__________________
The views, opinions, and positions expressed by Whidbey Life Magazine bloggers, as well as those of the people who comment on their blog posts, are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the views, opinions, or positions of Whidbey Life Magazine.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. You may link to this story. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
So I have some exciting news to share. My second book in my “Rejected Writers’ Book Club” series has just been acquired by Lake Union Publishing. For a bunch of ladies who have been rejected on the page, they’re sure getting a lot of attention from a real publisher.
Lake Union is one of Amazon’s own imprint companies so this news warranted a trip down into Seattle to meet with the publishing team and venture into the Willy Wonka of buildings—the infamous Amazon Towers, corporate headquarters of the company.
So off I trundled with my agent, Andrea Hurst, and her associate agent, Sean Fletcher, for a day in the big city—clad in my OICs (Off Island Clothes).
Amazon Tower in Seattle (photo by Anthony Bobnie for Business Journal)
I should say, at this point, I only possess three sets of OICs—you know, the ones you wear with underwear, and they don’t include clogs or boots in the ensemble. Because of limited OICs and the fact that this was the second meeting with Lake Union, it dawned on me (with only one more appropriate set of togs), that I may have to stop writing books they like or find another publisher.
Anyway, we left at the crack of dawn for a noon lunch meeting and, believe it or not, we actually arrived at 11.45. I could have flown in from San Diego quicker. But you know how it goes, there was a line for the ferry, then we crawled through traffic on the way down. Then with coffee and bathroom breaks, we finally entered Seattle at around 11 a.m.—only to have us overshoot our exit.
With the sights and sounds of the big city turning my menopausal brain into mush, I finally got my iPad navigation working, only to be informed by Siri that the exit we needed was half a mile behind us. This resulted in us crawling, in the boiling heat, through Game Traffic till we eventually looped back around.
The three biospheres in front of the Amazon headquarters will bring the outdoors indoors with over 300 species of plants from 30 countries. (photo by Suzanne Kelman)
We finally arrived to attend our lunchtime meeting in a new Italian restaurant in the shadow of the Amazon Tower. We had an excellent meeting with food so exquisite I wasn’t sure whether to eat it, plant it or mount it in a frame above my fireplace.
Once lunch was over it was off to the tower to have an editorial meeting and also enjoy a grand Amazon tour. I made it through security—yes, I had to go through security; I guess they were worried I might be sneaking in a Penguin publisher in my off-island pants. The first thing I realized, on entering, is that this is no ordinary building; with such impressive facilities, it felt more like a European airport than the place I order my toilet paper from.
It was, in fact, like entering a different universe. The 37-story building has a five-story meeting room center, featuring an amphitheater and stage with stadium-style seating for 2,000. There are also shops and restaurants, including a Starbucks, Skillet Street Food, Marination, Mamoon, Anar, Potbelly Sandwich Shop, and two restaurants from local chef Josh Henderson. That is a lot for a country mouse in her second set of OICs to absorb in one building.
My first port of call was Starbucks for a meeting with my new editor, who had flown in from New York for the week. We had a very successful business meeting discussing future projects and the plans for the Rejected Ladies. This included outlining the six months of work my newest manuscript will go through to make it into the beautiful package it’s sure to become. We had a great chat in such a comfortable little booth that it was hard to believe this was a work environment at all.
After my meeting, it was time for my tour of the rest of the tower. A trip up the building was an adventure all in itself as there are no buttons inside the elevators. Instead, you tap the desired floor into an electronic keypad mounted in the corridor; it then directs you to the elevator to take. I have to admit it seemed a very effective way to get you from A to B, but it was a little disconcerting, shut inside a metal box zooming skyward without the safety of illuminated buttons to chart my course or as a distraction to stare at as people entered. I kept thinking—as we gained speed, higher and higher—that maybe we would shoot right out of the roof just as in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We didn’t, as it happens, but when I got out on the 37th floor, we might as well have; it felt as if I was on the top of the world. What a fantastic view.
Proof that I made it all the way to the top! (photo by Suzanne Kelman)
As I toured the building, making my way down from floor to floor, I was in awe. Some of the highlights for me were the areas dedicated to fun, with an art and craft room and an electronic gaming room for employees to play and blow off steam. Also, a food court and an outside barbecue deck.
But my favorite by far was the dog floor. There is a unique outdoor deck, with a wall covered in tennis balls, so employees can bring their pooches to work. It’s complete with grass, fire hydrants, stacks of towels and dog toys. What a smart and innovative company.
Ever seen this many tennis balls at one time? On a wall? (photo by Suzanne Kelman)Dogs on top of the world (photo by Suzanne Kelman)
I was told by Gaby, my author-liaison lady, that not only do Amazon allow their employees to bring them new ideas to make this working environment the best that it can be, but they also encourage it.
I loved my trip to the big city and it was fun to meet everyone at Lake Union and see firsthand where all the magic happens. But I was so glad to shelve my OICs for another year and get back into my yoga pants (that have never been to yoga) and my clogs. It was a very successful trip and the good news is that my crazy ladies will be back in a second book to entertain everyone. It’s scheduled to be released in the summer of 2017.
Image at top: Suzanne Kelman, photo by Kim Tinuviel
Suzanne Kelman is a multi-award winning screenwriter, playwright, and an Academy of Motion Pictures Nicholl Finalist. Her debut novel The Rejected Writers’ Book Club was released in 2016 and quickly became an Amazon international bestseller within its first week. Her second book in the same series is due to be released by Lake Union Publishing in Summer 2017.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Today we talk about theft. Stealing. Purloined ideas and stories.
Elvis Costello has said, “every artist is a magpie and a thief.” I believe that statement, and there have been several well-known court cases about copyright infringement. Back in the ’70s, George Harrison was the first be nicked for this crime; it seems “My Sweet Lord” sounded a little too much like the Motown classic “He’s So Fine.”
In a bizarre case in the early ’90s, John Fogerty was sued because his new song, “Old Man Down The Road,” sounded too much like his ’60s Creedence hit “Run Through The Jungle,” for which he no longer held the copyright. Sued for stealing from yourself. Hmmm. (Excellent background on this can be found here.)
So, if the courts (and my 12th grade English class) are any indication, stealing of words and ideas happen all the time. The difference is, I believe, that artists steal from real life. And, they fictionalize and improve on what they have stolen.
After the short story master Raymond Carver died, Tobias Wolfe (known for his local novel and film entitled “This Boy’s Life”) gave a moving tribute in Esquire magazine. He recalled that Carver was ruthless in taking ideas and anecdotes from anybody. Someone at a party had mentioned watching an eagle taking a salmon and dropping it out of the sky. Sure enough, within weeks, a Raymond Carver short story had an eagle accidentally dropping a salmon on the hood of the narrator’s car. Lest we paint brother Raymond as someone who just took other’s good ideas, remember that he changed them, honed them, and remade them according to his own vision. As Carver said in an interview with Paris Review, “a little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.”
Gordon Sumner, better known as Sting, has said this mindset can actually be a little dangerous. This power, this using real life as material, is not the healthiest thing. As Bill Flanagan recorded in his book, “Written In My Soul,” Sting told him that the song, “‘Every Breath You Take,’ was written for one specific person. That is the power I have: If you piss me off or jilt me I’ll make you famous.”
Yikes. Sting is writing about real people and real situations.
In a CBS Sunday Morningfeature earlier this year, songwriter Jason Isbell was being interviewed about his childhood, and his mother said, “We have a joke in the family: watch what you say around him—it’ll end up in a song.”
In one of his better-known songs, “Decoration Day,” he weaves an amazing story of a blood feud between two southern families. He has said it came from his own family’s history, which he was not supposed to disclose—a true story of a grudge that was big news in the south in 1984. But, again, it was injected with a healthy dose of fiction thrown in:
It’s Decoration Day
And I’ve got a family in Mobile Bay
And they’ve never seen my Daddy’s grave.
But that don’t bother me, it ain’t marked anyway.
Cause I got dead brothers in Lauderdale south
And I got dead brothers in east Tennessee.
My Daddy got shot right in front of his house
He had no one to fall on but me
Spoiler alert: Isbell was writing in character, from the opposite side of his family’s viewpoint. His dad is alive and well.
Another well-known American writer, Edgar Allan Poe, lifted perhaps his most famous short story, “The Cask of Amontillado,” from a true tale that was being hushed up at an Army base in the 1800s. Seems an unpopular officer was kidnapped and bricked up inside one of the fortress walls. Poe asked questions about the rumor, and was told by superiors to quit talking about it.
He promised never to talk about it, but then changed the setting to European Carnival season and wrote it down! A vengeful enemy tricks his rival to follow him down to the catacombs, traps him, and bricks him in behind the wall to die. Brilliant. A very creepy and unsettling story, perhaps because it just might be true….
The final say in this matter must go to writer/artist Austin Kleon. His amazing illustrated book, “Steal Like An Artist,” and the two follow-ups (Just buy them all, right now. Trust me) are inspiring, liberating works. In his opinion, stealing done properly doesn’t pass off someone else’s work as your own; rather, it enhances it, honors its influences, and makes something entirely new. For his newspaper blackout poems, blog posts, artistic endeavors, and more fun than one guy should have, go to www.austinkleon.com.
Erik Christensen teaches English at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and often repeats the Ken Kesey adage: “It’s a true story, whether or not it really happened.”
Erik Christensen Band plays at the Fleet Reserve in Oak Harbor on Sept. 23, the Bayview Farmer’s Market on Oct. 1, the Island Arts Council Poetry Slam on Oct. 29 at the Freeland Cafe and Blooms Winery in Bayview on Oct. 30.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
I cried when I accidentally drove over my favorite snake with the ride-around mower and hacked her into three bloody pieces. I have the best garter snakes at my house and she was the biggest of them all! The one with bright blue stripes and a girth the diameter of a napkin wring. Did you know that garter snakes live to be ten years old? I wept for the rest of the afternoon and woke up crying the next morning.
When my tears stopped and I reflected a bit, I saw my many reasons to cry. Garter snakes are the same age as fifth graders and it had been a tough teaching year and my colleague had died. That sounds silly. Surely the snake was many things: an emotional metaphor for vulnerability, the slaughter of innocents and rage against the machine.
I needed to visit God’s Hospital.
I can hear the sharp intake of breath at that language. We live in such a spiritually neutered time, but “God’s Hospital” is just a name from the language of my favorite adults. My mom coined the phrase. A visit to “God’s Hospital” meant a swim in Puget Sound.
Two of my sisters and I did this the other evening. There is no big blue letter “H” on a signpost to guide you to the beach but maybe there should be. We chose the north end of Homes Harbor. The tide was up, the sun shone at a late August slant and the prevailing northerly wind feathered the waves of the flooding tide. Both forces pushed the warm surface water in to shore.
I picked my way over the rocks on the shore. The voice of my 14-year-old self appeared out of nowhere and warned that if I ever wore shoes in the summer, I was old. Maybe that was why I was crying.
The northerly wind chilled my car ride sweat to goose bumps and, for a moment, I second-guessed my swim. But there is no pausing at the door to “God’s Hospital.” Not if you want relief from everything that ails you. I was first in and my sisters followed quickly.
My twin and I are the oldest siblings and we are Pisces, through and through. We began our saltwater swims, as children, at our grandma and grandpa’s cabin at old Brighton Beach in Clinton. Our grandma set the standard for the afternoon swim; if the sun was out, we went in.
There was a bit of ritual around it. A quick run up the wooden steps to the attic bedroom loft where you yanked open an old sliding mullioned window and leaned out to grab your dry swimsuit from off the shed roof. A swimsuit that has been swum in all summer, in the saltwater and sundried, is as stiff as a board and full of sand. You pull it on with a sort of painful yank, the crotch and the leg holes stiff and chafing, pieces of dried eelgrass and lettuce kelp fluttering to the floor. The only relief is to get the suit wet again.
Our grandma would be ready downstairs in her rubber slippers and her swim cap with the snapping chinstrap and the divot of rubber ripped off and missing at her forehead from too much tugging. She held a rolled-up rice mat edged in black grosgrain ribbon, and my Grandpa’s transistor radio swung on her wrist from a thin leather strap.
My twin and I would run ahead, across the yard and the blazing hot macadam road to the beach. We picked our way past the beach grass and its fragrant green, hay smell and over the big driftwood. We ran barefoot over the rocks to the water because we were young.
We would glance over our shoulders toward Grandma and wait for her. She would carefully roll open the rice mat and place her towel and the little radio on it. Her skin was the color of milk, her shoulders a little hunched, but she had beautiful legs. She would walk down to the water and stride in knee-deep, pause, and splash the cold water on her chest and shoulders and dive in. We would do the same. She would whoop and swim briefly and get out but we would stay. Once your ankles stop aching you can stay in the water forever.
We always swam underwater. On a sunny day, the shallow water in Puget Sound is a yellow-jade color. Below the surface, the sunlight beams down in wavering streams in a silence as thick and viscous as the feel of the water. You can hear buzzing engines from far away, muted and unimportant, and the sensory deprivation is calming.
We would pop out of the water after awhile and our Grandma would go up to start dinner. She would leave us the rice mat and the little radio and we’d lay on our stomachs with our hands straight at our sides, our heads to one side, the salty snot running from our noses, and the hot sun drying the saltwater on our skin into little salty circles that itched and pulled.
The radio hummed and all was well at the edge of “God’s Hospital.”
A Northwest native, Siri Bardarson is a writer with an emotional hotline to the vibrant natural beauty of Puget Sound. When not writing about the importance of the wild blackberry, daisies and natural time, she practices her cello a lot and sings at the same time. She loves her Whidbey Island home.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
BY CAMERON CASTLE Whidbey Life Magazine Contributor
August 10, 2016
I was awakened by my wife, fully dressed, standing by my side of the bed. “Hold me,” she said, and pulled back the covers. I was confused but interested. I was thinking she was about to crawl back into bed when she said, “I heard a sound. I need your help.”
Oh. “Help me.” Not “Hold me.”
I looked at the clock. It was 5:20 a.m., the time Laura heads off to work each morning.
“I’m so sorry to wake you, but…I’m spooked. There’s something out there. When I opened the door it made a sound. It was scary. It was, it was…kinda like a growl and a quack. Will you walk me to my car?”
I got out of bed and grabbed my underpants off the floor. I stumbled down the stairs with her behind me and, with my underwear safely in my hand, opened the front door.
With my fists shadow-boxing in front of my face—like the Cowardly Lion acting tough in the Wizard of Oz—I walked her most of the way to the car.
Of course she woke me up. With fears of the vicious Ducoté—half coyote, half duck—lurking, ready to waddle out from behind the bushes, she needed my help. This rarely seen creature is identified quite easily by its unique, yet terrifying, call—a cross between the spine-tingling snarl of the Alpha Coyote claiming his territory and the guttural squeak of water fowl.
“GRRRWHOOWACK” can make your hair stand up on the back of your neck.
Well, I was standing out there, not wanting any part of my body to be snapped at by that wicked bill. He must have scurried (or waddled) off because we caught no sign of him. I was glad to help, though. I wouldn’t want Laura to confront such a beast by herself.
I waved as she drove off, then went back inside. I snuck back into bed as our baby awoke. He let out a loud and unusual sound alerting me he was up for good, and hungry. It was kind of a cross between the coo of a dove and the screech of a starving hyena.
Time passed and the Ducoté didn’t rear its ugly beak/snout again. So I was happy to chalk it up to my wife, at 5:20 in the morning, being a tad confused.
A short time after that, my oldest son, Mason, spent the night above the garage—a cozy abode lacking only a bathroom. When Mason came in for breakfast the next morning we asked him how his night’s sleep was.
“To tell you the truth, I was a bit freaked. I went outside to use the facilities when, next to me, in the dark, I heard the weirdest sound. It scared the daylights out of me.”
“What did it sound like?” we asked.
“This is going to sound weird, but it was kind of a cross between a growl and a quack.”
Aha!
I called my brother, Truman, who’s lived on Whidbey for years. He had no idea what animal could make a sound like that. He said I should call his friend, Gordy, who had lived on Whidbey for decades.
Before I could get my question completely out of my mouth, Gordy said, “Raccoon.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
I’ve never actually had any problems with raccoons. I have friends who have some fairly awful stories of damage or profound annoyance from raccoons, but they’ve pretty much left me alone through the years, with just a few mild exceptions.
One evening, a few years back, living in Lynnwood, I moseyed over to my neighbors’ house. Between me and them was a large raccoon. Because, in my mind, I exist at the top of the food chain, I took two steps toward it and, leaning forward, let out a bark-like sound. The raccoon, showing how intimidated it was, took three steps toward me. Surprised at that, I took another step forward, and stood up straight. The raccoon took two more steps forward, sat back on his haunches and made, what appeared to me, to be two fists.
With one fist under his chin and the other out in front, I next could have sworn he spit— out of the side of his mouth—like an old boxing manager chewing tobacco. It was then I realized I had something rather urgent to attend to back inside. Like making sure Jeopardy was recording.
But, besides that, I’ve had almost no direct contact with raccoons.
I have, though, had some indirect interaction with the rascals.
I think they’re eating my golf balls.
I’ll explain. I like to launch my golf balls, via my driver, into the woods behind our house. Then I venture in and collect them. Golf ball hunting is an old family tradition. The problem is that I’ve hit hundreds of beat-up golf balls into the woods, but I only find a few when I go in to search.
It was quite the mystery until, one day, I found one tightly wedged in the crook of a tree root. Well, it was kind of a golf ball. It had been devoured.
Raccoons!
Imagine how frustrated these raccoons must be.
“Honey, I got another egg!”
“Well, I sure hope it’s better than the last ones you’ve been carting back here.”
“Chomp. Ow!!”
The other thing they’ve done is eat my garbage can lids. Why this isn’t a reason to hate them so far is that they haven’t yet eaten the actual garbage. I can imagine what an awful mess that would be. But our raccoons just eat the plastic lids. I guess they’re so full from consuming a half-pound of Rubbermaid industrial grade plastic, there’s no room left for the chicken bones.
The raccoons chewed up the lid of our garbage can in such a strange way it defies explanation.
So I bought a new lid. I bought it on Thursday and put the garbage out Friday morning. By the time the garbage got picked up later that morning it looked like this.
The raccoon didn’t strew the garbage about. As I mentioned, he must have been full. Still, one hopes to get more than one use from a garbage can lid.
But the real mystery is the original lid. It looks like this.
As you can see, it was chewed on the inside. It appears the raccoon was trying to get out. How is that scenario possible?
I have only one guess.
Raccoon Number One pries the lid open, wiggles up, then loses his balance, falls inside and emits a yelp. Raccoon Number Two jumps on the lid, locking it tight.
“Stay there. I’ll go get help,” lies Raccoon Number Two.
Eventually, Raccoon Number One—realizing no help is coming—begins to gnaw his way out.
This, of course, seems absurdly unlikely, but it’s all I can come up with.
So, besides possibly absconding with scores of my golf balls and playing an odd variation of hide-and-seek in our garbage cans, I don’t really have any problem with raccoons. But, on the minuscule chance that Gordy was mistaken, there—in the back of my mind, if I’m alone in the dark, on our property—a thought often creeps in. What if —roaming-waddling in the wilds of Whidbey Island—is the dreaded and feared Ducoté? What do I do? Shoot it with pepper spray, or feed it some white bread?
Cameron Castle is an author and a stay-at-home dad. His recently published memoir is entitled, “My Mother Is Crazier than Your Mother.” He lives on Whidbey Island.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger…. he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts. ~ William Shakespeare, Henry V
What is it about horses that fascinates humans of all persuasions? Could it be that we intuitively feel the horse has the ability to teach us how to harness our own innate power and wisdom?
Shy girl and Savannah—horses accept us whenever we show up authentically. Shy is fine. (photo courtesy of Peggy Gilmer)
At the age of nine, having just barely recovered from a bout of measles in which my temperature had flared to such a degree that I felt like I had visited other realms, my stepfather led me outside from my sickbed and presented me with a palomino horse! She was a tall, beautiful Tennessee Walker. Her name was Blondie and, for the next five years, she taught me how to be in relationship to my strongest sense of myself.
Anyone who has spent time around horses will tell you that they read people extraordinarily well. You cannot fool a horse and, if you try to, you may be in for trouble.
Recently I had the opportunity to work with someone who has approached horses from the perspective of completely trusting and honoring the wisdom-teachers that horses are. Yes, they are beautiful, can make you feel like you’re flying when you ride them, but what if you allow them to give you even more of themselves?
Whoopi and girl—being present for another creates connection and a willingness to engage. (photo courtesy of Peggy Gilmer)
Peggy Gilmer has done just that. After her diagnosis of cancer in 1992, Peggy started a horse farm, something she had always longed to do. She successfully reshaped her life and her career. Peggy is a professional executive coach. After her own experiences with the horses, she decided that it would be more powerful for executives to work with these archetypal animals. Peggy is a gentle guide who can lead you through the gate, into the arena, and then let the horse do its job.
I experienced this work over the course of a couple of hours and it has left an indelible impression. Although I’m no stranger to the amazing beauty and power of horses, the time I spent with Peggy and her horses was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Peggy picked me up in Langley and we drove to the farm in Coupeville where she boards her four horses. In 2014, she relocated to Whidbey after selling her horse farm.
Girl with galloping Reba—in command, not control. So much more powerful (photo courtesy of Peggy Gilmer)
Peggy explained her approach to working with humans and horses as we drove up the island. Her work opens the gateway to developing the qualities of presence, connection, open heartedness and authenticity. I was already inspired by our conversation, but it did not prepare me for the profound experience of the embodiment of these principles in relationship to the horses.
When we arrived, she introduced me to her four horses: Reba, a 23-year-old mare, Sun, an 18-year-old gelding, Dewey, a 13-year-old gelding and Luna, a 16-year-old year old mare. All of them were born on Peggy’s farm except for Reba.
After showing me how to physically move the horses both away from and toward your body using your own strong physical presence and a light touch of a lead rope (if needed), I was already impressed and knew I was in capable hands.
Beautiful Reba, my wise and patient teacher (photo courtesy of Peggy Gilmer)
Peggy asked me which horse I was drawn to work with. I immediately zeroed in on Reba, the matriarch. Reba has a presence of wisdom and calm that is palpable and, I admit, I was tired after a day of work, and not ready for the youthful energy of a big animal. Peggy had me lead Reba to the arena and, once there, began showing me how she could walk and stop Reba, guiding the horse using her mind and body. Peggy made it look easy and, though my first attempt didn’t work in the same way, Reba certainly appeared patient with my attempts to guide her.
Peggy explained the most important aspect was to embody my full presence and intention. She had me look ahead and decide where I would want Reba to stop and then envision it for myself and Reba. It worked like magic, but it’s not magic; it is synergy and horses are well suited for exactly this type of partnership with humans.
After walking and stopping with Reba for a while, I was feeling changed in a way that I could perhaps explain through my lens of yoga practice. One translation of the word yoga is “ a union of mind and body,” in other words, a synergy that changes your field. My fields definitely expanded during my time with Reba in the arena.
Peggy asked me if I felt ready to ride Reba. Peggy makes sure her clients feel ready each step of the way. Some clients may never even need to ride as the other work will inspire and empower them enough.
Sun and girl—connection opens hearts. Open hearts create connection. (photo courtesy of Peggy Gilmer
Riding Reba with Peggy guiding me was extraordinary. Perhaps in the past I had intuitively used my body in the ways she teaches, but I had never done so with such clarity, intention and full embodiment of each action I wanted Reba to perform.
Peggy put a lead around Reba for reins but asked me not to use them! Instead I was led to use my body and mind, completely focused on how and where I wanted Reba to move. It works and, more than that, it teaches the power of focusing in relation to another being.
The nature of Peggy’s work is directly gleaned from her own experiences with her horses; because of this, her horses have also become wonderful teachers. They know her methods through her own impeccable relationship to them.
Peggy and her horses invite all people to their arena. As Peggy says, “I have worked with children from four to 74.” She also signs her emails with this tag line: “Nothng develops our abilities as quickly as TWO great coaches, one equine, one human.”
I think everyone can benefit from this profound experience, and perhaps take it much further than just one afternoon. Peggy’s four-year-old client says it best, “I used my voice and body to tell the horse just where I wanted it to go, and when I said it like I meant it, that big horse did it.” —Anna Chandler, age 4
Joni Takanikos lives, works and plays here on beautiful Whidbey Island. She practices and teaches yoga at Half Moon Yoga studio in Langley. She frequently takes the stage at Ott and Murphy Winery Tasting Room and Cabaret, also in Langley. She is delighted to report both venues are in walking distance from her new home.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Well, here I am on my home island, the island of Manhattan, attending a wedding for my step-niece, Leah. The wedding will not take place on the island of Manhattan, but rather in Brooklyn, which is not an island, exactly. Read on.
I seem to have a love affair with islands. I grew up in Manhattan and spent summers on Whidbey Island and its coastal opposite—Long Island. I attended a small women’s college, which was a feminist island, I was a professor in the Ivory Tower Island, and I’m a poet and avant-garde fiction writer living on my own personal island of strange imaginings. Perhaps it’s true that “no man is an island,” but this woman is sometimes—for sure.
The author in her frum outfit with her other sister-in-law, the famous Rebbetzin Tap, orthodox tap dancer and teacher (who told her to “wear your red glasses!”) (photo courtesy of the author)
The wedding I’m attending takes place on a figurative and spiritual island: the island of Orthodox Jewry. My step-niece Leah is Orthodox, as is her stepmother, my sister-in-law (also named Leah), her husband, and their large extended family.
Orthodox Jews prefer the term “Observant” or frum (Yiddish for ‘devout or pious’), and they tend to live in communities that appear to hold themselves apart from the secular society in which they’re rooted. This has to do with dietary rules as well as the rules for keeping Shabbat (“Sabbath”), which goes from sundown on Friday night to a bit past sundown on Saturday night. If you follow these regulations, it’s helpful to have stores in the neighborhood that carry kosher food and that open and close in ways that follow religious guidelines. It’s also good to have neighbors who are on the same page with you because, in an emergency, they can help you and you can help them.
There is also—clearly—protection in numbers. Observant Jews are wary—with some justification-—of being the victims of anti-Semitism, particularly because they are often visibly “different.” The men, in particular, can stand out with their black hats and suits.
The bride, escorted by her stepmother (in gold) and her mother-in-law (in blue), as they circle the bridegroom. (photo courtesy of the author)
I have to be honest: I tend to visit this particular island with trepidation. I am not frum and, to make things more complicated, I am a convert to Judaism. Since I converted under Reform auspices, my conversion is not necessarily recognized as “kosher” (aka valid) in the community my step-niece, my sister-in-law and her family live in. So, when I step onto this island, I feel out of place and foreign.
I also have to dress quite differently. I have to wear a special long-sleeved, high-necked, ankle-length dress and, as a married woman, I’m expected (although not obliged) to cover my hair. I’ve also learned recently that the color red is not particularly favored by frum communities, which means that I may have to leave my beloved signature red glasses in the hotel room and wear my spare pair, which is a discreet dark brown.
But the fact is, my frum family treats me with respect and love, despite the fact that in my regular life I wear pants, use cuss words, and eat bacon.
So, am I really going someplace so different or is this an island I have created in my own imagination? Remember, I like to do that. Make stuff up.
The bride and groom with the bride’s immediate family (photo courtesy of the author)
As I put on my long dress and my hat and my closed-toe shoes, I invite all of us to consider what islands are real islands and what islands are islands that we make up in our own minds. What separations and distances do we create out of our own unease with people who are different than us?
I visited MAPS (the Muslim Association of Puget Sound) this past spring, and I felt fine wearing a scarf. So maybe I need to get over this internal island thing.
Still, I’m looking forward to getting back to Whidbey. I might even put on some shorts! BLT, here I come!
Stephanie Barbé Hammer is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee in Fiction, Nonfiction, and Poetry. She is the author of a poetry chapbook “Sex with Buildings” (dancing girl press 2012), a full-length poetry collection “How Formal?” (Spout Hill Press, 2014), and a comic magical realist novel “The Puppet Turners of Narrow Interior” (Urban Farmhouse Press, 2015). You can follow her on twitter (stephabulist) or read her blog “Magically Real” as she tries to read “100 Years of Solitude” in less than 100 years at http://www.stephaniebarbehammer.net.
WLM stories and blogs are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Linking is permitted. To request permission to use or reprint content from this site, email info@whidbeylifemagazine.org.
Enjoy more articles in the print edition of Whidbey Life Magazine, which you can purchase at local and off-island retailers or receive in the mail via subscription.
In a bizarre case in the early ’90s, John Fogerty was sued because his new song, “Old Man Down The Road,” sounded too much like his ’60s Creedence hit “Run Through The Jungle,” for which he no longer held the copyright. Sued for stealing from yourself. Hmmm. (Excellent background on this can be found 
Gordon Sumner, better known as Sting, has said this mindset can actually be a little dangerous. This power, this using real life as material, is not the healthiest thing. As Bill Flanagan recorded in his book, “Written In My Soul,” Sting told him that the song, “‘Every Breath You Take,’ was written for one specific person. That is the power I have: If you piss me off or jilt me I’ll make you famous.”
In one of his better-known songs, “Decoration Day,” he weaves an amazing story of a blood feud between two southern families. He has said it came from his own family’s history, which he was not supposed to disclose—a true story of a grudge that was big news in the south in 1984. But, again, it was injected with a healthy dose of fiction thrown in:
He promised never to talk about it, but then changed the setting to European Carnival season and wrote it down! A vengeful enemy tricks his rival to follow him down to the catacombs, traps him, and bricks him in behind the wall to die. Brilliant. A very creepy and unsettling story, perhaps because it just might be true….
I needed to visit God’s Hospital.
