damn proud to be diy indie

The American Craft Council is having a conference downtown this weekend. Yesterday it started with tours of craft centers in Minneapolis (which I skipped, because I live here and I can visit the Minneapolis Institute of Arts any time, because, duh ... member). So, today was the first day I attended. I subscribe to American Craft Magazine, the bimonthly publication of the American Craft Council, and it's a lovely slick publication featuring gorgeous images of beautiful things, information about the world of fine craft, features on craft makers, and news of the craft world. I learned of this conference last spring, and signed up for it in June. It's a very, very big deal.

Most of the people attending the conference seem to be university educators and museum / gallery curators. There are some collectors, and the rest of us seem to be makers. A select few of us are younger and are heavily influenced by the connection that new technology has brought to the world of craft -- the indie craft movement, often called the DIY movement.

I didn't expect there to be controversy at this conference. I looked forward most especially to hearing Faythe Levine, the director of Handmade Nation, a documentary featuring DIY crafters working in the US, and also Maria Thomas, the CEO of etsy.com.

I have the purchasing portion of my online business on etsy, and I've been an etsy buyer for several years. I love etsy for it's amazing collection of all things handmade. It's an active, vibrant, DIY marketplace where you can find amazingly beautiful craft, and even alot of crap. Beauty is in the eye of the buyer, and seriously folks, you can pretty much find anything there. You just have to ask the search engine to find it for you.

On a panel this morning featuring three craft makers, five assumptions about craft were presented in Letterman top five countdown style and the panelists were asked to respond. Assumption #1, the final assumption presented was, "Is craft dying, and is DIY going to save it?" Underneath the words on the screen was the cover shot of Martha Stewart's Craft Encyclopedia. The moderator had just set us up for what would be the day's biggest discussion.

One panelist didn't really address the Martha Stewart issue. He said that the entire world of online tutorials and blogs was over his head, but his wife enjoyed them and they enhanced her life. The second panelist (a woman who was trained in metalwork and jewelry making, who now owns a bakery and creates accessories from sugar) said something like, "I love Martha Stewart. She is an amazing businesswoman and she is very savvy." The third panelist, fine craft metal sculptor who makes one of a kind gallery and installation pieces said something like, "I don't know if it benefits craft to have lots of people making all these things without training ..." or something completely pompous like that.

Before I knew what was happening, I said out loud (and thankfully this was the question and answer portion of their presentation), "I disagree!" They brought a hand held microphone to me and I began, "I think Martha Stewart is amazing. She has made it cool and acceptable for women like me to care for our homes in an artful way. She has allowed women to once again put importance on the fine craft of our grandparents --- quilting, making a fine meal, setting a beautiful table, creating a gorgeous dessert, planting a lovely garden, creating a beautiful aesthetically pleasing home. There are amazing blogs on the Internet where food images are food porn they are so lovely. There are wonderful craft tutorials on line that are being written by women like me. I am a full time mother and a part time potter, and I sell my work on etsy, and I make enough money to pay for my art classes and my materials. Martha Stewart is a very important person in the world of craft because she makes it accessible."

Another commenter, a fiber artist from the east coast said this, "I was an art director for Martha Stewart. She is an amazing woman and very, very smart. She's very hard to like when you work for her, but that's not the point. At any given time, she has probably 50 fine craft makers working around her and for her. She is very influential in the livelihood and the life work of craft makers." I could have kissed her, and I hope to see her tomorrow.

After the panel discussion was over, the second speaker came up to me and thanked me for what I said. Other people congratulated me for speaking out on something they felt as well. I seemed to raise an issue that is hot in the world of craft -- is it craft if anyone can do it? I would argue, as one speaker said very well, that it is craft when you are intentional, you take your time, you work at it and your work opens up new ideas and questions, and that you are not rushing to make something simply for the marketplace. So, therefore, the craft of at home mothers is equally as valid because it is the product of hands who love and cherish the work they do, as much as the fine craft maker whose work sits on a shelf in a collection. The art in our homes, quilts and pottery and wrought iron fireplace screens and stained glass windows and ceramic coffee mugs and ice cream bowls serve as aesthetically pleasing functional objects that we interact with on a daily basis. If it is beautiful baby blanket or a wall hanging or a funny refrigerator magnet, when the hands that make it take the time to go through the process, it is CRAFT.

So, then the most amazing thing happened. After lunch I was waiting in my seat for the afternoon sessions to begin, and a woman came up to me and asked, "Are you the woman who commented this morning and said she sells on etsy?"

"Yes, that was me," I replied.

"I wanted to come and thank you for what you said. I'm Maria Thomas, the CEO of etsy."

We talked for a few minutes about how we both felt we were on the defensive about what we do, she recommended a book for me to read, and it was absolutely mind blowing. We exchanged business cards, and as she walked away, I turned to two young women sitting behind me (who obviously were DIY craft makers from the titles on their name badges), and I said, "Oh. My. God."

Oh my God indeed.

easy peasy decorating fun

One of the blogs I regularly read is called Young House Love. It's a swell read, and a peek into some really great design ideas for DIY homeowners. I'm drawn to their design style, and I've learned a few things, too. They offer (for a fee) something called a mood board, where they take a design dilemma from a reader/client and offer up their design suggestions using photos of items the homeowner could readily find online or in retail outlets in any large metro area. I suppose you can use their suggestions exactly, or "hack" what they suggest using items that are similar.

Today I figured out how to do my own mood board. I don't use a Mac, so it was a little bit of a juggle using Broderbund's Print Shop as the drawing / design spot for collecting and organizing all the images, but it's working out okay. Of course, I had to convert the Print Shop file to a .pdf file to a .jpg file in order to get it here ... but, that's a PC for you.

I'm pretty happy with the overall look. The walls and floor are finished, and living with the serene grey on the walls has been zen bliss. I like the simple lines of the furniture. Because we are a small family of three, a 45-inch round table will suit us just fine (it comes with leaves for large family holiday dinners). We'll order four chairs, and when guests arrive we'll simply pull in the chairs from the kitchen and a couple of inexpensive Ikea folding chairs.

The buffet was a challenge, as we've had way too much furniture in this room for the past 20 years. I've amassed a large collection of dishes, crystal, serving pieces, and decorative items -- inheritance from my mother and two grandmothers. I'll be choosy about what to put out on the buffet as tablescape from here on out, and will have to use the cabinet's storage area carefully.

I'm not married to the drapes, because once the furniture and area rug are in the room it may be more sensible to find yardage and make my own drapes. For now, these silk drapes round out the overall look.

No, I'm not a trained decorator. I just play one on t.v.

on transitions and freezing markets

I think I've been selling my pottery in our local farmers' market for about four years. With all the getting up early to have my "shop" set up by 7:30 AM, my brain is a little foggy on how long it's really been. I could look up in my tax records ... but, that would just be too anal retentive, and while I am anal retentive it's more work than I need to do to make this point.

Last Saturday morning the thermometer in my Jeep read "28" during my drive to the market. At 6:30 AM. Which meant that for the next four hours I would be standing outside on an asphalt parking lot hoping that I wasn't the only lunatic thinking that this was a brilliant idea. Thankfully I had a good day of sales so there wasn't that "completely worthless morning of shit" feeling at the end of it. Nevertheless I felt exhausted. My ass cheeks didn't warm up until about 4 PM and only after taking a nap in front of the fireplace in the family room.

I consider myself to be a hearty soul [although from the virus that slapped me upside the head and stole my wallet last week you wouldn't guess that]. I'm a pretty strong person, I have a good supply of energy, I can rally and do what I need to do. But I'm contemplating a transition.

Lots of potters do art shows and have their work for sale in galleries. Art shows cost money to enter and galleries take a percentage of your sales for their commission. In return, they provide you with an audience for your work and a sales channel that you wouldn't otherwise have. It's fair, especially when your work is exhibited in a nice setting and people see it in it's best light.

For the past five years I've been reluctant to make that move because the market has given me the channel. But, now I'm thinking that it's time to consider the possibility of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Or, having time for other things on Saturday mornings. Like keeping my ass a little warmer in October.

This week I'm attending a huge conference on fine craft held by the American Craft Council. There will be speakers about the transition we face in our lives and in our work as fine craftspeople, and all kinds of networking opportunities. I'm going to geek out in the art and craft world for two whole days, hanging with my people. It ought to be both overwhelming and a total gas. It promises to spark some lively firing of synapses in my brain ...

... and some consideration of how I really feel about showing my work in the snow ...

complimentary parting gift

Today is the sick day I was supposed to get Monday.

Except, I'm not sick any more.

Which is good. Except the only fun part of being sick is that one last day ... the day when you're not deathly ill, but you're technically not well enough to do anything like a responsible grown-up. So, you take a shower and put on clean jammies and line up a row of DVDs and sit and watch movies while you eat mashed potatoes and Popsicles.

Yea. That day.

Well, Monday was supposed to be that day. Except that in 1994 I signed a contract giving another human being homestead rights to my uterus for nine months (which turned out to be 6 1/2, but who's counting?), and presto, he needed my attention on Monday ... and Tuesday ... and Wednesday ... and Thursday, but again who's counting?). We mothers chuckle and wink and nudge each other and say, "Mothers don't get sick days ha ha ha," but behind the little smile is a brain about to melt and an eye that won't stop twitching and an inner monologue going something like this, "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

-----------------------

Dear Centers for Disease Control,

Love the page you've set up with all the tips for caring for a sick person with the flu. Brilliant. Really. Except you've forgotten one teeny little thing, and maybe it just didn't cross your mind because you know, everyone is so concerned with the whole "how many schools will close?" and "just when will all the vaccines become available?" and "what about the productivity of the American corporation during 2009 Pandemic?" Those super-de-duper important things.

The one thing you seem to have forgotten? Oh, just a little nothing, really. But I thought I'd add it to the conversation in case you're sitting around your big shiny tables with those important doctors who like to discuss the care and feeding of infectious disease and the conversation starts to get a little slow and you're just about to adjourn for a sandwich. You might want to address this question:

"What do families do when mother has come down with flu, then her child/ren begin to burst into little feverish flames of human snot?"

I think you forgot the tips for that. Want my suggestion? Add this to your comprehensive chart, k?

"Suck. It. Up. Mothers don't get sick days."

Glad I could be of service, and thanks again for the nifty can cooler.

--standing still

an ode to opposites

I said, "I noticed you because you were cute and you made me laugh."


He said, "I noticed you because you had a balloon taped to your telephone."



That's how it started. And, 20 years later we're still married. A mechanical engineer and an artist. A left brain and a right brain. A level reaction and a hysterical one. Still married.



Why? Because. Because. Because.



Have we had some issues? Have we had some problems? Have we had our share of "holy fuck in hell?" Yup, sure have.



On the other hand, have we made each other laugh so hard one of us doubles over and nearly pees? Have we been to Vegas and "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?" Oh yea, man.



Here's what I've learned. Marriage is hard, hard, hard, hard work. Especially for me. I didn't see much good pattern making in the marriage department in my own family. My parents divorced when I was 10, then combined they had a total of four additional marriages. I learned at the feet of the "cut your losses" school of wedded bliss.



Add to that excellent training being married to someone who has the key to me and tells me straight up when I'm acting like an ass hat or when I need to take a close look at my mental state of mind? Even harder.



So, today it's a milestone. Two decades. Twenty years. On an unseasonably warm, beautiful day in October he said yes and I said yes, and we promised each other that no matter what we'd stay on the ride and keep going until it came back to the start. We've been up, we've been down, we've gotten stuck and had to wait for technicians to figure out the problem, we've felt the amazing twirls and left our stomachs at the top of the last big hill.



And, I'm still buckled in holding his hand, knowing that whatever this ride has in store for us he's next to me ... and even when I close my eyes because it's too intense or scary, when I open them he'll still be there. Beside me until it comes to the clickity clickity end.







Happy 20th Anniversary, honey. I love you more than I can ever, ever say.



--m.

this little piggy went home

Remember when H1N1 had that horrid name, and everyone in the media was predicting it would be the scourge of the planet, this century's plague, a killer of millions, and basically the four horsemen of the Apocalypse driving a jacked up Hummer on jet fuel? Know how the countdown to the vaccine has dominated the medical news, just below the "will we get it or will they screw us again?" of the public health care option?

Remember that?

Meh.

We here at standing still don't have definitive proof as in "here's the slide, that's the germ, it's called the H1N1, and here's your lovely parting gift, the H1N1 can cooler," but some really fine doctors told me this afternoon, "Yea, if your kid's doctor says he has it and you were sick first, you probably do too."

O-kay.

Where was the drama? I expected swabs and the color changing test tubes and lights dimming and a deep throated Chad Everett Dr. Gannon leaning in to say, "You, my dear ... you are a victim of H1N1."

Not so much.

-----------

Since I suffered the plague over the weekend, MechanicalMan agreed to do the run to the doctor with the Teen, then came home with the vague information, "Yea, it's H1N1." The Teen came in the house wearing a mask and promptly headed for the davenport in the family room where he collapsed into a fever just north of 103. MechanicalMan said, "Dr. S. said you should call your internist since you were sick over the weekend."

Dutifully playing my role as Responsible Patient in this season's drama 2009 Pandemic, I called my internist's office, explained how my son had been diagnosed with H1N1 and that I too had been very ill over the weekend. "What should I do?"

A matter-of-fact voice on the end of the phone replied, "We're going to need to see you, and you're going to have to wear a mask, and we'll put you in a room right away." I may have been tapped to play Queen Elizabeth, but look Mom .... Typhiod Mary.

So I scheduled the appointment, hauled my ass out of the pajamas I had been in since the last time my fever broke, showered, brushed my teeth, dressed and waited for MechanicalMan to come home and pull Teen duty while I drove in the rain to the doctor's office. I announced at the reception desk, "Yea, you need to give me a mask" which promptly caused my glasses to fog up and made it impossible to see. Pretty.

Fast forward 15 minutes, the obligatory waiting time that two doctors -- a internist and his resident -- will make you sit by yourself in a room behind a door wearing a mask. I crawled up on the exam table, put my head down and closed my eyes. This would be the last chance the flu victim mother of a flu victim teenager would have time for a nap.

"Tap, tap, tap" they knocked on the door. In walk two handsome dark haired doctors. I said, "Lucky me two handsome doctors." They laughed and said, "You'll never know, will you, with the masks?" I could tell, trust me. And, please. Both of them had dark, short hair. Have you seen MechanicalMan? Me likey the dark hair.

So, we do the regular exchange of symptoms and timing ... what did you feel and for how long? ... (I did manage to throw in that I was overwrought about not going to the Ren Faire, and that pretty much upstaged the whole aches and pains part of the program) and I'm waiting for the moment when one of them whips out the giant Q-tip to stuff up my nose. It. Never. Happens.

Nope. "We don't test people unless they're in the hospital. The MDH doesn't give us the tests."

"Then, um. Why did your receptionist tell me that I needed to be seen?"

And, I swear on the Robertson family Bible dragged all the way from the windy moors in Scotland that this is what the internist said, "Yea. I thought we made it clear to them that unless someone is really ill, they need to stay home."

I am absolutely not kidding. I could have totally done this exchange on Mayo.com with a margarita in one hand and my ass cheek in the other. I showered and put on clothes and left my kid with a now 104.2 degree fever so that two cuties could tell me that I probably have it and I shouldn't go to the post office until Thursday?

Jesus, Mary and Josephine. What scourge? What plague? Save your $20 copay for a new Bare Escentuals lipstick. Stay home. Drink fluids. Take ibuprofen. It's gonna suck (and it'll suck more if you miss your chance to play the fucking Elizabeth of the Renaissance Festival, but I digress to Saturday because I'm doing that alot lately). Take care of yourself and you'll get over it.

Unless you like hot doctors in masks. Then, call me. I've got just the clinic for you.

the disease of speed and focus

Hi, my name is standing still, and I have manic depressive illness.

Didn't know that? Well, now you do. And for those of you who did, I guess I'm just reminding myself.

I consider myself a poster child for mental illness because, guess what. I talk about it with anyone and I'm seriously proud of the fact that I'm not dead yet. Treated since childhood for a variety of mental ailments (most aggressive in my repertoire? anxiety and mania, the combustion chamber in the engine of brain illness -- they will totally get you going), I live daily with the fact that I'm not perfect. [I didn't write that, Shrynq said it one day during one of our sessions. And, the truth is an evil, bloodthirsty bitch.] I take medication every. single. day. and I will take medication for the rest of my life. Me and therapy? We're like this. [crosses fingers, tightly]

Some families have diabetes, or cancer, or heart disease? Mine, we've got the wacky brains. Generations back and generations to come. Wacky, wacky brains.

I've got a quote by Voltaire posted on my facebook page, "Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast, or of one thing too exclusively. " The reason for that particular quote? It defines me.

Madness, when you don't understand it, is tubing down the rapids in the dark without a life jacket. Madness, when you've had as much therapy as I've had and you take medication for it? The only thing different is that it's daylight. You can feel the bumps and feel how dangerous it is, you know intellectually that it's not safe and you need to get over to that nearest bank you can see, but sometimes you're still at the mercy of the river.

That's the frustrating thing. Shrynq gave me instructions to take some extra medication when I felt the squirrelies starting. And, I did. But, my mind and my focus in mania is a powerful mammoth force. This has come in handy ... say, when negotiating the complicated avenues of advocacy for my son, or dealing with my mother's drinking, illness and death. But, other times. It. Just. Sucks.

I'm coming down now. Coming down from a period of hypomania, an episode. It sucks. I'm not so much depressed as disappointed with myself. Disappointed that I didn't take steps to stop. Talk myself down. Put away some of the excitement. Temper the experience. Take a back seat. Find the sidelines. Go backstage and stay there.