February: Hands

Well, that was fun. I was just out for a while due to a painful cold/flu/thing. A week or so of coughing, earaches, hot and cold chills, and hallucinations is just great.

This month, I want to focus on the four things grandma taught me. The piece is titled
"Teach Me How" and has four parts:

Teach me how to create
Teach me how to care
Teach me how to be a lady
Teach me how to be patient

These will most likely be colorful close ups of two sets of hands, mine and hers, plus different objects in each panel. The only challenge in this one will be drawing elderly hands. Finding pix of my grandma is hard enough...now I have to find pix with her hands in them.

But that's my update. I know, I know, I still don't have pix of January, but rest assured it's here. Lying on the couch for days with snot leaking from you isn't exactly the greatest way to get things done. Tomorrow I actually have a doc appt to correct blocked ear tubes, which I guess is a repeat offense for my body since I was a kid. The best part is putting these Debrox drips in my ears. They're kinda oily and when they go in, you can feel it and can't do a thing about it, and then it starts going off like a bowl of Rice Krispies...in your EAR.

D:

The Jig is Up!

At least, partially, and to only one person. I told you, Mexican family members find a way to know what you're doing! My sister, Holly, basically told me at dinner last night that she knew I was up to something, and it had to do with art and my grandma. *shakefist*!!!!

I got my cousin's wife Tara, from my mom's side, to agree to photograph the picture for me. This should happen sometime next week.

In other news, I was searching around the net looking for other blogs about Alzheimer's. No one is really doing anything like me, which is good. If you read this and are inspired, I would ask you to let me finish before you get started, or perhaps wait a considerable amount of time after your loved one's death to let it sink in. I know this sounds cruel and maybe selfish, but I didn't do anything for ten years for many reasons, and one of them being that it was just too soon. It may be different for you, and if you feel you need to do the same thing I am, I can't stop you. But just remember that I am doing this because it is the only thing I can do for my grandmother, and as an artist, ideas may be a dime a dozen but ones like these mean the most.

However, I did come across some blogs that are very interesting and I thought I should share with you. Livejournal had a smattering of blogs and groups and I didn't find them very helpful. Blogger/blogspot has a few that are very interesting.

First is the Unforgettable Fund
Next is Had a Dad this tells of a more recent struggle of Alzheimer's

And the most interesting, and actually I was rather shocked to see this, is this blog. This is written by someone with Alzheimer's. I really don't know what to say about this, and if the author finds my blog please forgive me. This takes so much courage to do, especially knowing what happens when you have Alzheimer's, from a stand-by POV. It's a good reminder that this does happen even now. Just because my grandmother is gone doesn't mean things have ended.

I feel a bit bad for falling into the "taking action because it has effected you" scheme. I have not donated anything to any Alzheimer's fund in the past 10 years, and have not taken any walks, or anything. No one in my family has. It's like...okay, she's dead, let's move on. No! No no no no no! I've donated to children in Darfur, victims from the tsunamis and hurricanes, and even sponsor a kid in Bangladesh (he's the cutest little kid, I'll share pix later), but my own grandmother's personal illness?

*smacks self*

I don't know how to get involved, although I've been doing some research. I feel like I want to be more in on the prevention of the disease, and what exactly the disease is, than curing it, because to be honest with you, I don't think there will be a cure. I dunno, maybe I am speaking with a lack of knowledge on the subject, but that's just my personal feeling at the moment.

The hardest part, though, is getting other family members involved. I'm sorry to say, but getting them to donate is literally like pulling teeth. My sister went to Ghana, Africa for a missionary trip, and I think one person on my dad's side of the family donated. I even had an argument with someone at my aunt's house about giving. They heard that it was through the church and basically told me to buzz off. My sister made her goal however, and went. There she helped in building projects, organizing a soccer tournament for the kids, and learned more about how less fortunate countries go through life. She wants to go back and I want to go with her.

But hopefully I can convince them.

A harder thing, however, is interviews. I want to interview members of my family, and they think they can guard their emotions and secrets, but I forgot to tell you that I studied journalism. All I need is to get them to agree to it, and I can weasel my way in there. I'm not doing this for their detriment; I want to know what they were feeling during my grandmother's illness, how they feel after, and what they've learned and if they've had any regrets. Mostly, I want THEM to realize these things. I also want you to learn of them. But my family can be stubborn, and once one person figures out what I am doing, everyone will know and no one will tell me anything. I have a right to know. So do you.

Anyway, that's it for right now. I'm going to the gym.

January Recap

I don't have a pic for the picture yet, you have to wait until I get a good photographer.

I was writing a recap for this month, and it ended up being a whole deluge of my experience with my grandmother. Some of this is stuff I've already talked about.

Also, before I go on, I hope no one feels this journal's sole purpose is to air my family's dirty laundry. It's not. I love my family, despite everything that happened. I love my parents, and my sisters, and all my aunts and uncles and cousins, despite everything. I love my grandparents. You have no idea how much it hurts to write the things I write here.

Without further ado:

I had thought for a while about doing something concerning the ten year anniversary of my grandmother’s death, but for a long time I couldn’t think of anything appropriate. I got the idea to do twelve separate works of art after looking at artist calendars. This year was the year; ten years after the end of a long struggle with Alzheimer’s. Ten years of an odd sense of heated stillness that couldn’t be shaken. I’m sure I’m making it sound more dramatic than it really was, but to think that ten years had passed is so strange, I still have trouble wrapping my mind around it.

I want to begin to understand just who my grandmother was, before and during her illness. I was an observant kid, but I was still not there during the majority of her life. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to go with as far as means to commemorate someone. I am in no way in possession of any sum of money that could do her justice in the form of a donation to some council or association. I am no one important and I have no influential voice.

If anything, I am an intermediate artist. Self taught, which means mostly everything I know has been garnered from watching others without them knowing, or reading books. I decided, however, that if there was one way I could express my wishes to remember her, and to explore who she was, it would be through art.

Doing twelve pieces meant that I would take one month to do each piece, and that I would basically be forcing myself to think of her the whole year. I have trouble focusing on a project; if I cannot get it done quickly while my attention and interest was still peaked, I would lose motivation and abandon the project. Setting twelve monthly goals and thusly making a year project is a big step for me. I hope I can stay on track.

I began thinking about what grandma meant to me with my limited knowledge of her. I remember that she lived in Arizona, with my grandfather, in Tucson. It was rare that we would see them, as it was an eight hour journey from Rialto, California to their house in the desert. I think that in part helped bring a level of enchantment to them. It was always a great day when Grandma and Grandpa Lopez came to visit. It was always a good time when we made the trip to see them.

To a child, adults have this sort of mystery about them. They know things you don’t know. They understand things that you just can’t grasp. When you’re raised on fairy tales and cartoons, life takes on a meaning that adults just can’t understand. You hold a power that they cannot possibly understand, and vice versa.

Through this power, Grandma and Grandpa Lopez were magical beings. For some magical reason, Grandma made the best food. Give her a few ingredients, and you had the best home made tortillas you could possibly ever taste. Grandpa had a magical hot dog cart, and a magic giant car that could fit all your cousins. They each had their own magic scent, which was really Old Spice mixed with Mexican food and birdseed, plus some cigar smoke for flair.

Their house was filled with magic little figures; ceramic cartoon characters and brass owls. Fifty little thimbles with birds on them, one for each state. A little silver tray covered with antique perfume bottles. Tiny tea sets, too small for Barbie, in their own tiny cupboards, with a tiny table and tiny chairs to match.

Then there was the backyard, out in the Arizona sunshine. Birds. So many birds it is hard to remember just how many there were. Finches, cockatiels, even a parrot named Mickey Free. There were even two Chihuahuas. The cages were lined up. The singing was beautiful.

The house was magic, with sap running down the walls during the summer, and a sense of coming rain in the air before thunderstorms came rolling in. During the night, the tiles outside the front door would still be warm from the day’s sun.

And then there was the sewing machine. An older machine, sitting on a cabinet filled with scissors, pins, needles, and thread. Through it, Grandma turned sheets of fabric into dolls, coyotes, Indians, even Care Bears. It was a wonderful, magic machine. I wanted to learn its secrets.

I remembered the first thing I had sown; with help of course, was a pair of corduroy shorts for myself. They’re very simple to make; two fronts, two backs. Two side seams, one seam up the leg and back down on the inside, and the crotch. Make a channel around the waist and put in elastic. It didn’t take long until I was learning how to make potholders, dolls, anything.

Grandma convinced me that sewing was an important skill to have. “An actress will pay you a lot of money to sew on a button, because she can’t do it herself.” She showed me her little stamps that would go inside the garments she used to make, and pictures of herself in tailor shops where she used to work. I couldn’t wait to sit and sew with Grandma. I couldn’t wait to cook with Grandma, to talk with Grandpa, to spend time in that magical place.

It’s hard to look back on that time, when I was just a kid. I had no clue what was about to happen to my grandmother, and subsequently, my family. As I am sure you know by now, magic doesn’t last forever. Children don’t stay children. It’s hard to remember just everything that went on when I was a kid, but I try so hard to remember the good things.

I haven’t been to Arizona since my Grandpa died. I miss it, and I miss them. I wish that the more cognizant years I had with them were not filled with illness and the degradation of this sense of magic. During those years, I learned that all was not perfect in my little world.

As I got older, I became aware that being the shy, quiet kid in the corner was not how everyone did things. I may have been quiet and unassuming, but I was observant. I would rather spend time doodling or reading books than being with friends or playing sports. It soon became apparent that lack of encouragement in these areas was not going to stop me, and although my parents were proud of me being artistic and excelling in school, I obviously had problems relating to kids my own age, especially when moving to a new house and trying to make new friends. I remember being in class during recesses, sewing a stuffed animal by hand, or reading books away from the playground, or drawing pictures.

I became the subject of bullying, but I was never one to retaliate. It was frustrating, but I soon learned that if I drew the other kids pictures, they’d leave me alone for a while. I don’t think that these kids knew that I’d remember everything they’d say, even to this day. I suppose it does build character, but no kid should have to go through that.

I think my parents were frustrated with my lack of ability to be social, at least, I know my mother was. I was also frustrated with sibling rivalry, as my sisters were naturally more social and athletic than I ever was or ever will be. I just wanted to remain a kid. I wanted to play. If I couldn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t do it. It was that simple.

Going to Grandma’s was an escape from that. None of my classmates were at their house. No one was vying for special attention. I didn’t need to worry about scoring a goal or winning a race or what the teachers had to say. Grandma and Grandpa loved everyone. Everyone was happy.

It is one of those things that you truly never want to end.

I don’t remember exactly when Grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but I remember my parents pulling both my sister Holly and I aside and telling us. I know they needed to tell us, but we were still kids, and we had no idea what Alzheimer’s was, let alone what it did. They explained it to us, but like I said, there were things that grown-ups knew and understood that you just couldn’t. I was still having a hard time picturing my parents as kids, once upon a time, let alone that one day they would die. A teacher in fifth grade once told the whole class that one day, everyone in the room would die, but even then, I still didn’t understand.

Aging as a bad thing was foreign to me. Who didn’t want to get older? Older people got to do cool stuff like spend money and drive cars, and pick up the phone by themselves.

Death was even more foreign. It only happened in stories and movies, and in the Bible, which was even more of a foreign thing to me.

The thought of my Grandma growing old and dying was just preposterous. Grandma was magic. Magic could do anything.

Soon, however, the weight of this diagnosis became known. I grew older, and my ability to understand everything about me grew stronger. My parents would send my sister Holly and I to visit my grandparents during the summer. At first, nothing seemed wrong. Sometimes Grandma would forget where she put things. Sometimes she forgot people’s names. Nothing big, it happens all the time. My parents would call me and ask me how she was. I didn’t want to tell them anything bad, so I told them she was getting better. Everyone who got sick always got better, right?

Soon, however, she was forgetting how to get home from the store that was only two blocks away. She was forgetting how to do things. We, as children, were telling her how to do grown up things. Still, the severity of the problem had not yet hit us.

I think, however, it began to sink in for me when one time we visited, my Grandma insisted she was thirty five years of age, and that she had forgotten how to write her own name. I had discovered my Grandpa’s old typewriter and was making good of wasting their paper writing tall tales to my parents, when she had come over in her brightly colored mumu, asking me what I was doing. After I told her, she asked me how I wrote my name. I wrote it for her, and asked her to write hers.

She didn’t know.

Gone was the magical woman I had instilled in my mind. Where there was once a witty, loving woman, standing in the desert with a parrot cane in hand, wearing many necklaces of heavy silver and turquoise, waiting to welcome us in to good food and magic lessons…

There was a person that no one seemed to know. I knew what she should have been, and she was leaving us all, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

At this point, I do believe she thought she was her thirty five year old self, before her children were ever born. Sometimes she would remember who they were, but when she spoke to me I think she thought I was one of her long lost girlfriends, or even a sister of hers. Soon it became too scary for me to want to be there, even though I still volunteered to go visit.

I began to see other things as I grew older. My grandfather was not always the happy smiling old man that I had become accustomed to. I began to see that he was impatient, and at times, rather angry. Where I was also beginning to become disenchanted with everything my own parents said, I soon saw that my grandparents weren’t the perfect people I had always thought they were. I began to understand the things people said about them behind their backs, and the things they said behind other people’s backs. It’s easy when people think you have your nose buried in a book to listen in on the conversation.

I began to realize that my aunts and uncles weren’t perfect people. I remember having a sleep over with my cousins, and their parents coming to get them in the middle of the night, with my aunt getting into a fight with my mother. I didn’t know it then, but that was the end of the close relationship I had with my cousins. I didn’t understand it; I just knew that the word family was used loosely in conjunction with them from that point on.

Other family members said and did things unfavorable in my eyes, and others. My dad cosigned for a car and my aunt didn’t pay the payments, and he took it back, spurring animosity that I am sure to this day resides between them. One aunt had a child out of wedlock. Another uncle had a wife that used to baby sit us and verbally abuse us, and no one would believe us. The magic was gone.

At some point in my early teens, Grandma and Grandpa moved to California. I know how much they loved the desert, so I knew that this was not easy for them to do. Taking care of my grandma was becoming too much for my aging grandpa. I don’t remember the order, but at some point, they lived with us, and I gave up my room so that my grandparents could live in it.

I was frightened. These were not the people I remembered in my youth. There was no happiness to be had when I was around them. They were weak. They were old. I didn’t understand it. It was so beyond everything in my world that I just could not deal with it.

There were times where I would have to stay and watch my grandmother alone. I look back at it now and wish I had been less selfish, and more patient. She paced the house, muttering to herself, trying desperately to remember what she had forgotten. She knew that something was wrong. She knew that something was missing. She had no idea who she was, who I was, what day it was or even who her own children were, but she knew that something was wrong.

She was trapped in her own failing mind. None of the pills that were fed to her could help her, aside from alleviating pain and trying to slow the effects of the disease. Sitting and trying to talk with her was unbearable. Every five minutes she’d ask the same thing.

“Hello, who are you?”

“I’m Jennifer, Grandma. You just asked me.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. What day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, I just told you!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know!”

Quietness.

“Hello, who are you?”

I feel so angry at myself as I write this for the lack of patience I had. She was my grandmother, and I treated her as an annoyance. I was frustrated both with her and my inability to make it better. Up until this time, apologizing or doing something could fix any problem. I had been told all my life that if I put my mind to it, I could do anything.

It was a lie. A filthy, horrible lie. There are obviously some things you cannot do, as limitations of your own person and being human. You can flap your arms as hard as you want, but you aren’t going to fly. You can study all you want but you are never going to know everything. Not everyone is going to become President or an actress. And still, to this day, you cannot cure Alzheimer’s.

And still, despite how I treated her, she was still in there somewhere. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to see her putting an extra blanket on me, and telling me that I should go back to sleep and that she loved me. And then she’d turn right back around and be the whimpering, helpless shell.

Those nights I would remain confused and troubled.

At some point, they moved into a mobile home trailer with my Aunt Olga, their eldest child. I still went and “babysat” my grandma, but whoever she was now was not who she ever was. The worry and whimpering and wondering what she forgot turned into a frail skeleton lady with black and white hair, in a bathrobe and slippers, walking around, muttering something akin to “Mitsubishi” and sometimes even the word “Vicente”, who, as it turns out, was a brother of hers that was long dead. At this point I couldn’t stand to be around. I pulled even deeper into my “shell”, as my mom puts it.

My grandfather began his own spiral downhill. There were days where he would sit in his recliner and not get up unless to eat or use the bathroom. He became even more irritable, especially when my cousins were about. He never seemed to yell at myself or my sisters. My dad told me that it was because my grandpa knew that if he did so, he would have to answer to my dad. I don’t think that was true. Sometimes, when no one was around and things were quiet, I could tell that he was doing his best to cope with the situation about him, and keep his pride. I don’t know all that went through his head during this time, but as certain as I was afraid of what was happening, I’m sure he was too.

Some people react to fear differently. I pull into my “shell” and refuse to associate with anyone. Some people get angry and yell and call people names. It’s still the same inside though.

At some point, I became aware of the toll that this illness was taking on my family. People were angrier. In my family, anger is the most common outlet people use to express their feelings. Most will disagree and say it’s not true, but it is true. We all have anger management issues (not just me). My aunt Olga was becoming tired, impatient, and detached. There were things that she said that I just could not believe came out of her mouth.

My aunt Elena at some point developed a thyroid disorder, and lost so much weight it was scary. My aunt Estella and her family became more foreign. I don’t know what Andy was thinking, but he was dating someone who was only a few years older than myself. I think it was just a confusing time. I suppose everyone goes through those times in their lives.

Uncle Oscar…I don’t know. They were never there. After the incident with the sleepover, they became less like family and more like just pictures on a wall in someone else’s house. You knew these people were alive, they looked familiar, but they couldn’t be stranger to you than some random person on the street. I knew that he was angry with my grandfather, and he was angry at other people in the family. I didn’t know why. It was unfair.

My family was falling apart as things grew worse. Soon my grandmother needed a nurse just to survive each day. She was never placed in a home. At that time, I had wanted it because I knew people at a home could take care of her better, but now I am glad that never happened. I could think of nothing worse than to toss your own family member into a home. I know some people must because they cannot take care of their family member who is ill, but we could.

And then one day, grandma got pneumonia. We took her to the hospital and they had to put a tube in her lungs to drain fluid. This hospital refused to let us stay overnight despite the Alzheimer’s. Sometime early in the morning, they called us to let us know that she had pulled the tube from her lung and was not cooperating. Of course she wasn’t, she has no idea who she is or where she was! When someone did arrive to help her, we found her covered in blood, much like how the nurses had found her.

After then, the tumble downhill was rather fast. There were frequent trips to the hospital. Frequent scares. Strokes.

Now the shell in the bathrobe was a skeleton with skin draped on it, with stark white hair, the head turned forever to the side, shaking and incoherent. I was fifteen.

I realized then that yes, my grandmother was going to die, and my grandfather would soon follow.

Christmas came. The whole family was there. It was tense. We tried to be happy, but it was hard to pretend. I did not want to be there. My disenchantment was nearly complete. This family was ugly to me. I hated everyone. I hated myself. I know there are pictures of us during that time, smiling. I look at those pictures and hate myself for not showing what I truly felt. I remember my mother shouting at my ex-aunt. I remember ill words being said between everyone.

Sometime in the days that passed, a chaplain arrived. I remember viewing this person with loathe. I am not part of the catholic faith, and did not believe that this person could possibly do anything to make the hurt go away, and I was right. He said words, but they were meaningless. I wanted him to go. I knew something bad would happen.

And it did.

My grandfather broke down crying. I had never seen this man cry in my life. It was one of the worst shocks in my life. I knew then that he pretended to be so tough, and said mean things to cover up what he felt. I knew he thought this man could somehow help him, and maybe he did. I remember my grandpa’s old hands grabbing the chaplain’s and crying out, “Please, forgive me. I wasn’t right to her. I wasn’t true.”

Then it all made sense. Why everyone hated him, why everyone hated each other. Why everyone clung to my grandmother. Everyone knew but me. The secrets that grown ups knew were now out in the open.

My grandfather had a family before he ever met my grandmother. He divorced this wife and left her and all their kids for my grandmother. They had my aunt Olga, and then when my grandma was pregnant with my uncle Oscar, she moved to Arizona alone because my grandpa had cheated with her with his ex wife.

I don’t know if my aunts and uncles feel that they were cheated of something because of this, or if it was an easy reason to hate my grandpa. It pained me as well.

The thing is though, my Grandmother returned, and had four more kids. She kept this family together, even when she was sick. I had been right.

She was magic.

January A Visual!

So yeah, that's what it looks like thus far, only with a crappy camera that washes out the colors. Her teef aren't right, and obviously her arms aren't either. The space missing from her hair is going to be a bow and rose.

I've decided not to do the dress with actual fabric. I 1) don't have time and 2) am not sure I can do it right. I'm going to have a hard enough time painting satin, I don't want to screw it up with methods I have not used before.

Anyway, there's the update.

Last night I went to dinner with my family and my Dad said that my aunt Olga, who thinks she is the matriarch of the family, has planned for Christmas to be in Tucson because this is the 10 year anniversary of my grandma's death. My family is adamant in not going because they want to have Christmas at their house, and also because Olga is the one who made the plans.

Um...I don't celebrate this holiday anymore. It's pagan, and the Bible warns you against celebrating any traditions. I want to be in Tucson on the 27th. So...even though I don't agree with anything Olga does, I think I am going to Tucson this December.

Mom and Dad are going to be sooooo happy.

January: 60% Done!

January 25, 2008

The dilemma of perfecting my grandmother’s face seems to be solved…I hope. My video camera is either out of batteries or broken. I hope it’s just out of batteries.

I want to talk about something very personal, and that is the general acceptance of who I am. I am certain that, if she had been healthy, my grandmother would have been a good mentor to me in my late teens, and not in the sense that she had something to teach me, but in that she knew what it was like to be a creative person.

I just signed up for a comic based project that requires me to draw, ink, color, and letter a script written by someone else. I read the script and got a vague idea of what I want to do, but to be sure I wasn’t committing any comic book faux pas, I dug out my comic book script how to book. In it I found a lot of printer paper…which isn’t unusual. I am prone to doodling on just whatever and sticking the doodles in odd places. Like today, I drew Gwen Stefani on a paper tablecloth at lunch and tore Gwen off and put it in my purse. Yeah.

This had no sketches, however. Inside was a letter, written in red marker, that I had written to no one in particular while I was in school. As soon as I saw it I remembered just when I had written it and why I had, and what was going on at the time. It was one of the numerous arguments between myself and my parents about my choice of career, why I wasn’t getting any money, how I was a liar and not full of talent, etc and so forth. It’s very hard to argue with my parents. Mom doesn’t listen and Dad has this sort of method of turning everything you say around on you, much like a politician or lawyer.

Here’s the letter:

I am a lousy person. He [my dad] may have believed that I was saying that just to make him mad or to make him be quiet. Despite what you believe, I know it’s true. Everything I have ever done and everything I have ever experienced leads me to believe this and I wont deviate. I have been bullied, spit on, despised by teachers, gotten into fights, and have been hated by many. I know what I am. I thought I could make do with it and try to make myself believe it wasn’t true. In doing so, I have come to the conclusion that I am irrevocably a lousy person.

I am so tired of being hated. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being fat, ugly, miserable, afraid, shy, weird, crazy, and depressed. I am tired of not belonging, or tagging along to watch others live their lives loved. But most of all, I am tired of hating people. I am tired of being bitter. Why am I the only one I know who feels this way?

I am sorry for what I am. I am sorry but this is the only way I know how to be. I don’t want to, but everyone knows by now that I cannot change. I am tired of not being perfect for you, because that’s what you deserve.

If you can’t tell, I don’t believe that way anymore. In fact, looking at this and realizing that I ever believed that is so foreign to me. It’s been easy for me to forget just how depressed I was at some times.

To my parent’s credit, they, like most parents, only want what’s best for their kids, and want their kids to follow their examples. I was the kid who would do things not because it was best for me, but because I wanted to do them. Not that I was a bad kid; in fact, I was a straight A student who respected authority and when someone asked me to jump, I asked how high. I was not perfect. I am the eldest, and I think there is a stigma with the eldest being perfect. As time passed, it became evident that I did not excel at everything and I had absolutely no desire to.

Incidents which spawned this letter occurred from about the age of 8 to when I was kicked out a few years ago. Yes, kicked out. To make a long story short, I wrote a diary entry about how frustrated I was with my parents, and my sister showed it to them. I was given two weeks to find a place to live, and ended up in Hollywood rooming with two strippers, one of which was a Satanist.

That incident has come and gone, and I can tell my parents still harbor bad feelings about it. Sure, I shouldn’t have written those things. But I am a person, and looking back, I had every right to be angry. I was convoluted. I didn’t know which way to go because every way I wanted to go was the wrong way. I still harbor bad feelings too. I don’t trust my sister, and I don’t trust my parents; my sister violated my trust and my parents showed my entry to a psychologist without my being present, and this psychologist convinced them that it was a good idea to kick me out, or at least, didn’t dissuade them. Every time I think about my personal thoughts being shown to a perfect stranger who passed judgment on me without even letting me speak, I am angered. I was told to see a psychologist. The thing is, I knew I didn’t need to.

In the coming years, I learned to be happy again. I learned that the directions I wanted to go were not wrong, and just because the things I did weren’t like how my parents did them, didn’t mean they were wrong. I don’t apologize for who I am, and I don’t alter myself to appease anyone’s general idea of who or what I should be. It sounds like I am defending my right to be gay (which I'm not) or maybe even if I wanted a bi-racial marriage (which I don't think my parents would care about since my mother is white and my dad is Hispanic). But no...I just wanted to be creative.

But during those years, there were so many times that I just wanted to say something about the inner struggle I was facing, but I just couldn’t. After so long, it will burst out and it wont be pretty. I think I held it together rather well, for what I had been facing, and for a very long time.

I do not think I am a lousy person. In fact, I think I’m pretty intermediate on the scale of lousy to awesome. I have my faults, but I’m not out there being a complete dipshit. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke or drink, I don’t go sleeping around, and I don’t run red lights.

That doesn’t mean I am “normal” by any means. I am here on a Friday night, typing a blog and then I’m going to go to the gym, and then I am going to paint until all hours of the morning. No parties, no expensive dinners, no froofy clothing and high heels. I don't have a boyfriend, but because of MY choice.

I will never make as much money as my parents want me to, but then again, I was raised on the notion that there was never enough money, so money means very little to me. Things matter very little to me. I make enough to get by and that is fine by me. I don’t drive a fancy car, I don’t wear make up, and I have a handful of close friends. I spend a lot of time on the internet, reading, and drawing. I do not play sports.

So, I guess it will always be Them And Me, but that’s okay.

This comic I am doing, I will not get paid for it. I am doing it “just because”. I know that, to a lot of people, the reason “just because” is a foreign concept, and most are unable to wrap their heads around it. That’s okay. “Just because” isn’t for everybody.

But for me, it’s all I need.

January 26, 2008

I realize when I do portraits, there’s a certain point where I have to back off and rest a while because it starts to freak me out, especially when I do portraits of dead people. Unless you are under stage lights or something, you normally don’t carry the effect that paint can give you. Yes, there are hidden greens and yellows and purples on your skin, but with paint, you can bring that out to a noticeable level.

With this painting, I am purposely making my grandmother’s skin redder. I am also making it more “Hispanic” in color range, since she was rather fair for a “Mexican”.

However, there’s a certain point, as I said, where it stops looking like colors being mashed around together, and starts looking like a portrait. That’s the part that freaks me out, because it’s starting to look like what you want it to, and it starts to take on the emotion and movement you want it to have.

I do admit that skin tones have to be a challenge area for me, especially in the face, which has more angles in tinier places. Hands are another problem area for me. I can draw a face and a hand no problem. I can even color it with markers, or in photoshop. Paint? It’s another story for me.

I started off with a palette knife, but it became too hard for me to control. I guess I am not familiar enough with them yet, and I didn’t want to screw up the painting. Unfortunately, I do not have $40 to go buy another canvas at the moment. The result is a smoother, in comparison to the background, blend of color, not the rough, texture filled effect I was going for. I might find a way to salvage this. The hair I intend to do with a palette knife, maybe that will help tie it in.

So, since my camera isn’t working, I can’t give you much of a visual update. I think I might go to my mom’s house and steal borrow hers.

Anyway, family business. Last night I had a dream that was a bit disturbing. A year or so ago, a cousin of mine had a baby…at the age of 15. While growing up, I was determined to never become a teen mother because 1) my dad would kill me, 2) my dad would kill the father, and 3) I saw how much of a burden being a teen parent was through high school. I went to Eisenhower High School in Rialto, CA for about two years. It was so weird to see girls sitting next to you, in 9^th grade, 8 months pregnant, like it was the most normal thing in the world. It was even weirder to be pulled into special classes about how to take care of yourself (self defense) and how the school can help you if you’re pregnant. I understand the school just wanted kids to keep coming to school, and it really isn’t their business to be someone’s parent…which made me wonder what kind of moms these girls would turn out to be, if their own parents were unable to instill values within them…or at least threaten their very lives if they fucked someone before marriage.

But anyway, this girl, my cousin, had a baby girl at the age of 15. I was very angry because this sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen in my family. Sometimes, I still get angry. I was angry at my cousin for making such a stupid decision, I was angry at my uncle for not raising her with better values, angry at her mother for being an idiot (which she is no matter what happens), and angry at my aunts for thinking it’s just all A-OK for a teen to have a baby. I get angrier when I see the father of the baby and his stupid parents. Everyone acts like it’s just the greatest thing ever! No one cares that Danielle will be less lots of choices in her future. No one cares that this baby will grow up wondering why some people regard her with contempt. No one cares that it’s wrong for a reason.

Well, last night I had a dream that Danielle held her baby under the water in a bath. I got informed about the funeral and decided not to go, since it was a tragic story from the start. Actually, if it really happened, of course I’d go. But just like when she had the baby, after killing her, nothing bad happened. Danielle didn’t go to jail. Neither did my cousin Tanya, who has been formally charged with a DUI after totaling my aunt’s car. It was sunshine and roses.

My parents were rather strict, and very sheltering. There are times where my dad still to this day tells me to lock all the doors and keep all the shades drawn and make sure every appliance is unplugged before I leave my apartment, and when I go to the store, to park under a light. I want to retort that his time for worrying about my wellbeing has ended, and was over the instant he kicked me out of his house, but of course I would never be that disrespectful. But they did instill a good sense of right and wrong within my sisters and I. I am almost 26. I wouldn’t DREAM of getting pregnant right now in my life. I can’t afford it, I am not psychologically ready for it, and I just don’t think that’s who I am right now (even despite my mother’s constant “so when am I going to have grandchildren?"). After graduation, almost all my friends went out and got married and had kids. Most of them are divorced. Very few of them seem happy.

I think I want to get some living done before I decide to make myself responsible for the well being of a tiny person. Even then, I plan to adopt.

I look back at where I was when I was 15. I was still a scared, quiet little girl. I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing. If I had had a baby then…oh hell. I don’t think it would have turned out good, even if my parents hadn’t skinned me alive. I was just barely learning how to do my own laundry and how to drive a car, let alone diapers, formula, and strollers.

Not to mention that my grandpa was still alive. Hoooo boy. As if my dad isn’t enough, put on top of that what my grandpa would say. I know that it’d be the ultimate let down for him.

But anyway, back to the dilemma. Sometimes I want to pull Danielle aside and set her straight. Sometimes I want to just burst out screaming at all of them for everything they do wrong. I more often than not want to pull Danielle’s mother aside and give her a nice verbal lashing, and maybe add some fisticuffs for effect (the urge happens every time I see her dumb ass). But I realize that everyone makes their own decisions, and everyone NEEDS to live with the consequences. No one will learn if someone comes to catch them every time they fall. Glossing it over won’t help. That is why I haven’t stuck to anonymity in this entry. None of this is a lie. This is how I view things. I’m not going to lie about it. If any of my family ever see this, oh well.

I supposed I am just naively wishing for a more innocent time, but in this world, there really is no innocence. There is no one who isn’t guilty. I mentally kick myself for all the times before Danielle had her baby that I wanted to call her up and ask her if she needed someone to talk to, or someone to tutor her for homework, or someone to spend time with who wasn’t irrevocably screwed up in the head. But I never did. So in a way, Danielle’s failure is also my own.

Anyway, I was thinking of doing a portrait of my grandfather as well, since he was obviously an important part of my grandmother’s life. Despite what others said about him, and from what I heard he did to her (he cheated on her), she stuck by his side.

I can’t tell yet if that’s courage or just stupidity.

…………………..

Same day.

Okay, I’ve done the face and hair. I did the hair with a flat, wider brush, as I still couldn’t control the palette knife in that small space. I have a problem with shaky hands, so I didn’t risk it and used the brush. The arms might need to be painted over.

This is where I get freaked out. It looks so…vivid…!

Also, I just realized that all the portraits I’ve ever done, save for self portraits, have been of dead people.

What. The. Hell.

Little boy scoots closer. YOU PAINT DEAD PEOPLE!

RUN AWAY!!!!

January: Promise Pix

I promised pix and now I have them. Unfortunately, my video camera isn't working at the moment, so I can't give you a video update.

Anyway, here I am with my sisters. Holly, me, and Ashley. As you can tell by the gaudy hats with the giant sunflowers, this comes from somewhere in the mid 90's. Now, I've got my mom's nose, and her upper lip. Ashley looks a lot like I do. Holly is more my mother's child, so to speak, but ended up with fuller lips and a teeny nose. Both Ashley and Holly ended up with my mother's lack of eyebrows; theirs are fairly painting on right here.



Now, for grandma. Here is a pic of her from I think the late 40's/early 1950's. I saw a pattern from this time period with a similar bodice detailing to it, so I am generally deducing the time period.



Check out that hat. Look! Both hats are STRAW hats! D:

Her forehead is being covered by those weird bangs (which are both crimped and curled down over her forehead in a sculpted sort of hair flap), but her forehead is much like mine.

But yeah, there you go. Pix :D

Also, blogger better not friggin tell me that my password is incorrect anymore. It takes me like an hour to get onto here when I try to update, and then tells me it's incorrect, and then I come back later and it's correct. :|

January 1

January 19, 2008

I sketched out the painting on the day of the last post, but since then it’s been sitting there, waiting for color. I guess I was a bit hesitant because this would be the second time I’ve ever used acrylics to paint a picture. Last time, I had tried to use the medium like watercolors – which isn’t bad if that’s the effect you’re going for, but I didn’t know that then, and that wasn’t the effect I had wanted.

I picked up a few books about acrylics, since I am mostly self taught and have learned what I have from books anyway. In college, a very small percentage of the teachers I had were actually an integral part of my learning. Most did the “open this book and do this”, not exactly showing you why it was important and how you could deviate from that example. Many got rather pissed off, to put it lightly, if you dared strayed from their examples, their methods, and even their individual styles. I made a point to be adamant about my desire to develop a sense of self in my work, much to my instructor’s chagrin. I’m sure there are a few burnt bridges, but that’s okay because their opinion holds little significance to me.

Many think that style comes after you learn the basics. I tend to believe that style exists before you learn the basics. Sure, copying others helps you learn, but you can never stray from your own personal style. It’s who you ARE.

So, to make a long story waaaaay shorter by skipping the details entirely, I picked up a few books on acrylics, and upon reading them, I realized I knew a lot more about the medium than I had previously thought. My mind went “okay” and I also bought some painting knives (plastic unfortunately), because I had something in mind and I knew I could only achieve that with a knife.

From what you can see in the video, I want to create texture with the background, and will continue to do so with the figure. This was actually quite fun and simple to do. I just blended the gradient out from the figure, and then scraped it back in to give each scrape several colors. So far I’ve used white, yellow, red, and green, red’s compliment to create the darker reds along the edges.

I have a feeling that I will be a sucker for texture as this continues. I can't wait till I get to the skirt part, where I will be using real fabric to create the texture :D :D :D

I realize I am not the best artist, or the most experienced, and I am sure there are people out there who will want to point out flaws in what I’ve done. That’s okay, I don’t mind, but I’m not in this to compete and although I know I will learn from the experience, I am doing this mostly to remember my grandmother, and of course to also have fun. I turn on some great music (right now it’s Blondie, Von Iva, Ray Charles, Elvis, and Gwen Stefani), and dance the night away with my canvas, knife, and palette.

As for today, I am calling it quits because I want to get started on the skin tones, and I have hesitated in sketching out the rest of my grandma’s face because I don’t have many pictures of her at my age. They’re all at my aunt’s house…

Okay so I’ve retrieved them, and like I had surmised, most of the photos are in a bin somewhere and even they don’t know where they are. I did however manage to snag a few beauties, including some of her when she dressed in drag. Yes, my grandma crossdressed…as the male part in the Mexican hat dances (and other dances). I found this awesome photo of her sitting at a table with some beers in front of her. She looks like she’s having a good time there. Others have her just wearing traditional "downtime" clothing for the 40's and 50's, and wearing a few 40's dresses. Although I can always tell which one is her when she is pictured next to her sisters, all the others look almost exactly the same.

I will be posting these pix soon, just to share with you, but I don’t have a scanner at the moment so it will have to wait until I am at work. Here is ONE picture, the main inspiration for this piece. Of course this is posed and she obviously isn't dancing flamenco, but it's proof that she did do it!

http://dedredhed.deviantart.com/art/Josie-1554384

Man, her arms were skinny O.o nana needed to eat more...

Now onto the video...which is taking forever to upload...