I bought an ukulele and have begun teaching myself a few cords. I’m also taking a script writing class and continue experimentation with watercolors (as opposed to the acrylic paints, with which I’m much more comfortable). I’m really making a lot of effort to continue learning wherever and whenever possible.

All this on an island where I am constantly surrounded by and do not speak the native language and am trying to absorb and understand a culture that is seemingly entirely separate from my own.

… and it’s working. I’m not putting pressure on myself to learn any of these now. In fact, I’m giving myself permission to be awful at everything I’m attempting to learn. THAT permission to fail is much more foreign to me than the language here and I secretly love it. I love my immature paintings, fumbled strummed cords and garbled language and misunderstandings. Because that permission to fail is so foreign and thrilling… it’s exciting to finish something and say “wow, I really fucked that up – and it’s okay!”


What will I fuck up next? surfing? Well, maybe I won’t go quite that far… but I could try making nice with someone I really don’t like… or perhaps shutting the hell up when every fiber of my being wants to shout about something.

I’ll tell you what – something that’s been really pretty cool is giving myself permission to fail while meditating. Actually, that may just be the key to meditating for me… FAILURE to keep my mind in one place for more than a millisecond!

Okay, so to wrap this up… I’m discovering that my success in any one attempt/field/project does not define me. My ATTEMPT and the honest outcome of it – now that’s the sweet stuff.

Define me? Oh, who the hell cares. I don’t think I really need to do that anymore. Do you?

I know full well that most of these will get better with time. I also know full well that my [perfectionist] nature is also getting better with time. Who knows, a few more awful renditions of Under the Boardwalk on my ukulele, another awful scene written by Donna and another mispronunciation of a really common name here in Hawaii and I just may learn to never again beat myself up for anything less than perfection!

Life Gets in the Way

There is a third-to-half finished painting of a willow tree in the snow upstairs and a piece of Private Art [I will not discuss] hidden in the closet behind me.  A friend gave me a gorgeous little “Transition Journal,” in which I’ve only written three pages thus far… and honestly, those were only completed because my routine car maintenance took a little longer than usual and I happened to have that journal in my purse.  There are colorful tales and images and ideas buzzing around in my head, but I don’t have time to extract them, so they keep bumping into each other and – if left to collide with no exit in sight – are quite likely to eventually form a brown slurry with no hope of definition.

You see, life has gotten in the way of my art.  The stuff that drives the paintings and blogs and ideas, is standing in the way of them.  What kind of ride is this?

Meh… I suppose this is the time of my life during which I build the sort of background and character that makes the above more interesting and rich.  I guess that packing and moving and unpacking and major life decisions and actions and a career change are required so that I can give good exposition later.  I’m willing to buy that.  I like to have new stories to tell.

And so, I must get back to all that.  Here’s hoping to return on the other side with more stories!

The First Rule of Art Club…

Private Art is my new obsession. Remember, I’m an actress… the opportunity to create something strictly for myself, is tantalizing and fulfilling, and damn near naughty. I love it. Whatever I do within this realm, is for me – for my growth as a person – and nothing else. Ahhhh.

As a director and acting teacher, I have always preached to my actors that the “end” result of their performance is not apparent when the curtain falls; it is what you, the actors, the designers, technicians and audience members take with you when you leave the theatre. It is REALLY difficult to convince a theatre artist that performance alone isn’t the most important thing in the world. The best I believe I have managed to do, is convince an actor or two that this performance will probably make the next better. Harumph…

As a theatre Managing Director, I preached to our audiences, Board and committee Members (and anyone else who would listen) that we were supporting our own growth through the act of enabling the creation art. Frankly, I don’t think very many people took that idea seriously. Some nodded their heads, more rolled their eyes or simply voiced their tacit disagreement/disapproval/ennui. I obviously have not yet found a way to express this idea clearly and in a compelling fashion. Well, I’m not giving up, dammit!

When I research a character, hone my performance skills, craft a song, paint, sculpt, take a photograph or write a poem or story, I choose to grow as a person from the experience of the process of artistic creation. I learn about myself; I teach myself; I develop skills that you cannot see or hear or experience in that construct itself… only in me. I grow as an individual.

Now, you may grow as an individual as a result of experiencing my artistic product – my performance or piece – and that’s lovely. I really appreciate that idea, but that is not what this is about. I’ve spent most of my life trying to create something that will move you. I don’t mean to sound harsh here, but that’s enough for you – I want this for me. I’m putting the oxygen mask over my face first, as it were.

Okay, now imagine a room or a town or a Town Hall or a company or congregation, filled with individuals who purposefully grow and develop themselves through the act of artistic creation. Do you see it? I honestly believe we are all doing our best at any given time, most of the time. I don’t mean to belittle your best or that of the person next to you. What I’m suggesting is that our best can improve if we find a vehicle to facilitate activation of some different brain cells and a fresh point of view.

And now we’re back to my painting again. And please, insert your form of art in the place of “painting.” If you don’t have a form of art, decide on one, it won’t matter if you feel you can do it well or not, you don’t have to ever show it to anyone or even talk about it. In fact…

The first rule of our new art club: Do not talk about art club.

That’s the second rule too.

The third rule: Do not show, exhibit, print, frame, re-enact, record or otherwise raise up on a flagpole whatever artistic expression it is that you choose to bring to Art Club. Don’t talk about it, show it, share it or think for one moment that anyone but you will experience whatever you choose “it” to be. The thing itself is absolutely relevant, but only to you in this moment.

Back to my Private Art [painting] again. I’m not going to talk about it, but I will talk about the growth, pleasure and stimulation I receive as a result of it. I am learning patience and acceptance of my expression of process. I am learning to see the world around me without judgment or editing. I am learning that what I thought was true – that which I would have sworn was true… have committed hours and years to… have dressed and worked and said and done for the sake of… have begun and ended relationships because of… have hated and loved in the name of – has not been true and in fact, was only real, substantial and relevant to me, in my mind, in that moment.

That is what I’ve learned thus far from my “it.” Jeez, I can hardly wait for the next visit to Art Club!

I’m still a conventional artist. Hell, I’m posting this blog, right? This is not exactly the front page of the New York Times, but then again, it’s out there to be seen. My Private Art is separate from any piece or story I choose to share with the rest of the world – My Private art is what I bring to Art Club. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Private Art

Months ago, I wrote that I had taken up acrylic painting for a hobby. I’m still doing it and I cannot tell you how much I enjoy it. I like to paint things that just appear in my head, like faces in swirls of color, as well as things that appear outside my window, like a willow tree that looks different and more intriguing to me every day.

That willow tree is especially amazing in the moonlight.

I have spent many a wee hour of the night and morning, flicking the light on and off – off so I can see the tree… on so I can see my brush touch the canvas – to paint that tree in the moonlight. I finally discovered that my Kindle light could be tucked into the top of the canvas, only too discover after the sun rose that the light didn’t offer me enough to actually paint what I saw. Rather, what I saw on the canvas didn’t look so good in the light of day.

Oh, that tree! I love painting that tree. The midnight blue sky that ends at the bumpy horizon. The green and yellow tree becomes black and gray. The hill upon which it sits becomes obsidian and slate. When I stare longer, I begin to see hints of green and a strange, rich burgundy. I love painting that tree.

BUT, I won’t show it to you. In fact, I am no longer showing any of my paintings to anyone. I’m giddy and filled with the torrid temptation to break my own rule at the thought of it. I have been showing off my paintings to friends and family. I have a small group of loved ones, to whom I send periodic cell phone pics of my paintings, so they can watch them evolve (one of my favorite aspects of the painting is the evolution, but then again, I’m a theatre person at heart). Even those folks don’t get to see the paintings any more.

Ahhh, the mere idea of art, just for the sake of art, just for the sake of me creating that art, makes me squeeze my knees together in delicious anticipation. You see, I am an actress; I have spent most of my life learning to hone a form of art specifically for audience consumption. I fall in love with my characters as I read the script and analyze my every motivation in the quiet of my home, knowing that the way in which I present my art must be digested by unnamed floating faces in the dark of the theatre. It’s like stripping naked and dancing in an apartment on a crowded boulevard at night, with no shades on the windows. But I just want to dance. How different my dance would be if I knew no one was looking…

This idea of the tawdry voyeurism of the theatre became most known to me when I began to direct. My shows were such delicate tapestries of story-telling. My casts, designers, technicians and I created such intricate finery. I dreaded the disruption in balance those strangers would bring. Those people in the auditorium were Johns with fists full of cash, paying to dally with my precious lovelies.

Yeah, that sounds really dramatic, I know. What’s your point? We ARE talking about the theatre, after all. What? Did you expect me to sound dry and pragmatic about this?

Okay… I wrote a profound and never before seen algorithm on the chalkboard and then invited strangers off the street to press their faces against it.

Got it?

So anyway, now I’m painting and I finally have my precious, private, tangible expressions of emotion – my emotion – and I’m not sharing them with anyone. PRIVATE ART. This is like singing in the shower at the top of my lungs. Not because I’m rehearsing or honing my chords for anything… just singing for the joy of creating an expression of my immediacy.

My immediacy…