Zinnias

My dad started growing zinnias this summer; rows and rows of zinnias. And now he has so many that each morning he cuts enough to fill a 5 gallon bucket and brings flowers to whomever he sees throughout the day. He tells me he can’t believe how happy it makes people. I think that is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.

Beauty in a bucket

Today I was the recipient:) Thank you, babbo!

💕

Chapulines

Wednesday-

I must come up for an idea for a printmaking class I’m taking tomorrow and I just drew the saddest little grasshopper you’ve ever seen. He’s looking up at me from the pages of my notebook like “ really, that’s all you’ve got?” After all of the amazing, inspirational printmaking studios (tallers) you visited today, that’s it?

Chapulines

I am in Oaxaca, Mexico, after somewhat spontaneously deciding to join my mom (a printmaker) on a printmaking tour and workshop (facilitated by @juliannakerwin). It’s been almost 20 years since I was last in Oaxaca and even longer since I carved a piece of linoleum or wood in a printmaking class.

Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán, Oaxaca

I spend the first two days, before the tour starts, reacquainting myself with the food, smells, markets, and sites of Oaxaca, of which there are so many! The historic center of town is jammed with galleries, studios, restaurants, shops, and parks, with a fair amount of Americans but not as many as some other places. There are plenty of opportunities to practice Spanish and plenty of menus not yet translated which yield regular surprises- like last night’s dinner of small plantains in mole; I thought the plantains were just a part of the meal, not the whole thing. They were delicious! Chapulines (crickets) are served as snacks everywhere. Dried and covered in salt, chocolate or lime and chile, I avoided them 20 years ago but eat them freely now because, why not? They are the reason behind my attempt to draw a grasshopper for tomorrow’s class.

Benito Juárez Mercado

I don’t remember seeing as much printmaking in Oaxaca in 2003, so I Google it to learn more about its history here. In 2006 there was a massive statewide teacher strike that turned violent and around that time print shops sprang up to create large scale and large quantities of prints in support of the teachers. Oaxaca is a politically active state and being one of the poorest states in Mexico, has ample reason to protest ongoing inequalities and corruption. Many of the printmaking studios have had a direct relationship with these protests while others have gone more of a fine art route but what seems clear is that there is great support for the art form, in all its forms, from the community.

La Máquina Taller- Lithography Press from 1909, moved from Paris to Oaxaca in 2016. One of 26 left in world.
The entrance to Taller Subterráneos
Prints, like these printed at Subterráneos, are pasted to the walls of buildings all over the center of town using wheat paste.
Diaspora Negra de Mexico-
Subterráneos

Thursday-

What a day!

I attempt to bring my little surfing cricket to life and I won’t know until tomorrow how he turned out. Our teacher is lovely and sets us up with materials, tools, and directions in his front courtyard.

After working on our own projects we tour more studios; some master printers who print for world famous artists and others who bring their presses into the literal streets, supply materials, and help anyone who walks up make a print. Both versions are awesome.

Courtyard of Taller Bambu

Friday-

I ink my plate and lay it face up on the press and lay a piece of cotton paper gently over it. Our teacher, Federico Valdez (@federico_valdez_art), guides us through the process until we each end up with three little prints of our own.

Surfing Cricket

After finishing our prints we wind through the hills outside of Oaxaca City, through beautiful Etla, in search of a paper factory that ends up being closed. As keeps happening, someone knows someone who knows someone and we end up in the studio of an amazing paper maker (and human) Roberto Valenzuela of Papel Oaxaca. He was a biologist, dismayed at the environmental impact that paper production had on the planet and decided to begin making paper from agave, banana leaves, and multiple other natural fibers. He is a dear!

Papel Oaxaca

Now it is Sunday night. It is raining outside and I fly home tomorrow. I feel so much gratitude for the inspiration this art form, trip, city, workshop, and country have given me. I can’t wait to return to Oaxaca, but in the meantime I am excited to practice some of what I’ve learned back in New Mexico .

Gracias.

Slow

Wednesday-

Soaking up the humid air, sandy feet, and salty skin before we return to the desert. Lobster, ice cream, bagels; luckily accompanied by long bike rides, walks, and swims.

Relaxing isn’t my go-to state. It takes me at least a week to sink in and let the mental lists go. Some part of me has a hard time ending a day without having something to show for it. So, the “something” must shift. Today I finished one novel, am almost done with two more, played and lost Monopoly, watched some birds and squirrels, and biked into town.

I think about those backyard birds and squirrels and how they spend their lives; eat, poop, sleep, try not to die, procreate, repeat, die. They don’t appear idle, nor do they seem overly anxious or concerned, until a hawk appears. Life is what it is. Neither good nor bad.

Cape Cod

The grass is brown around the edges in Cape Cod and people dig through garages for rarely used sprinklers and hoses. Coming from the West, it’s hard to call it a drought, but the plants are undeniably crunchier than usual. Moderate, not severe, according to a map of droughts covering the USA.

On a quick trip to Martha’s Vineyard, a woman points the beach plums out to us. In August they turn dark red and, after cutting the seeds out, are ready to eat or turn into jam. We are too early but try them anyway, they are sour and hard.

I download a birdsong app on my phone and it quickly picks out sparrows, cardinals, a goldfinch, and cowbird. I’m reading the novel Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy, about a woman in the near future following the last flock of Arctic terns on their final migration to Antarctica, after most other birds have gone extinct. So far, it is great! But, it has me thinking as I walk and bike by low lying houses, beach plums, and seagulls.. how beautiful and fragile we all are and dependent on a precarious balance.

There is rain in the forecast. There is also humidity in the air and so many green trees. Drought seems a relative term.

RAIN

It is cool and rainy out, in answer to prayers prayed over the past four months. Pollen, smoke, dirt, and dust that’s been swirling in a seemingly unending wind since March has finally settled and our small part of the West can breathe easier, at least for today. Much of New Mexico has been on fire since the beginning of May and only now are the firefighters getting any kind of help or relief.

The rain seemed to cool not only the ground but also that fear which has built in all of us as we slowly realize we don’t know how to be under this hot, dry ‘new normal’. Over the past month I’ve been twice surrounded by street racers while driving in Albuquerque, seen people yelling at each other in public, and had to step outside and deeply inhale the dusty, smokey air while reading articles about how low the Colorado River is, to keep from having a panic attack while at work. The anxiety, anger, and sadness is real.

But, so is the beauty. Last night I floated down the muddy Rio Grande at sunset and watched chickens cluck around in a field of wildflowers. The drive home was all pinks and oranges as the sunset exploded and kept exploding. This morning, the peonies on my dining table have officially turned from light pink to brown, like I tripped and spilled tea on their edges. The birds outside are extra vocal, as if they forgot how good it feels to take a bath and can smell the worms just beneath the damp dirt.

Depending on my mood, so much beauty can also be sad. But, today I’ll appreciate it and let it just be beautiful.

The Middle Aged Rosy Ones

As we sit on the beach in Sayulita, Mexico, my boyfriend and I both realize at the same moment that we are no longer the twenty somethings. It’s a strange thing to go from being those young ones, something you’ve just always been, to the middle aged ones with jobs, responsibilities, and commitments and to not be entirely sure when that change took place. Sayulita is full of both perfectly bronzed young babes and older retiree expats and only a few who look like us.

Early morning

We are up early each morning, partly because his kids have us trained to wake by 6 and partly because we can’t seem to stay up past 10, even as the party rages outside. I love mornings in strange towns; just the garbage men cleaning up last night’s trash, the sweepers, bakers, surfers, and parents of young kids walking on the beach. I take pictures on these morning walks that make it look like we are in a not yet discovered Mexican beach town, but Sayulita has definitely been discovered and we are the late ones to the party.

Sayulita Plaza
Candy Cart

When I was 23, freshly graduated from college, I packed a bag and headed south with three friends for two months in Mexico. We were those 20 somethings; no reservations, no plans, no worries, and perfectly toned bronze bodies. I learned how to play backgammon in a small bar in Puerto Escondido that became our jumping off point to begin each night. Several games would be followed by tacos and then lead us to some dance club on the beach playing Manu Chao, Bob Marley, Shakira, and Eminem’s 8 Mile soundtrack. We’d get to sleep sometime before dawn, wake at noon, and begin again.

We took photos on my Pentax K1000 camera and, depending on if we were in a town for long enough, would drop film off and wait a couple of days for it to be developed. We carried the 2003 Lonely Planet guidebook like it was our bible because it was. Dog eared, stained, and written all over, I still have that book. Every few days we’d find an Internet cafe and check our email, something I never checked at home, but it was easier than writing letters home to mom. No social media, no TripAdvisor, no Google. Sometimes we’d look for a place and never find it, ending up somewhere unexpected and possibly better? We’ll never know. I do know it all worked out, somehow, every time.

Then, during our last week in Mexico City, as I sat looking through the housing rental classifieds with a friend we’d met who lived there, I got an email from a friend back home asking if I’d like to work on a movie starting in a few weeks in New Mexico. Hmmm, I thought, that could be interesting.

Around this same time, across the world, my boyfriend was traveling and playing soccer for various teams in Africa and Australia. He earned just enough money to survive, buy food, a clunker car, and pay rent on a cheap place to live. Life was great.

As we sit in one cool restaurant after another, I eavesdrop on groups of young women talking about the availability, emotional and otherwise, of the guys and girls they are interested in, of where they are coming from and where they want to go next. It’s not that I envy these conversations, I really don’t, it’s just a shock to realize I’m no longer these women. My boyfriend relates to my realization and has his own version of one.

I love Mexico. Always have. As I sit on the beach my attention is now drawn to the boomer retirees. Goal.

Where am I coming from and where do I want to go next? That film industry thing my friend called me about back then turned out to be ok but at some point in the future I look forward to when it too is a memory and we live near a beach and eat papaya all day.

Flying

In the meantime, I’m grateful for the life we’ve created, for the adventures I said yes to back in the day, and for those yet to come.

Turn Turn Turn

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heavenA time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weepTo everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heavenA time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones togetherTo everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heavenA time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracingTo everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heavenA time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late

-The Byrds

Laissez les bon-temps rouler

Bourbon at night

I’m sitting in Louis Armstrong International Airport waiting for my flight home after a quick two week job in New Orleans. It’s foggy and damp out, warm and sticky for the beginning of February.

The last time I was here was in 2004, before Katrina, Ida, smart phones, social media, before so much; when I was a little baby costumer working on one of my first films. A deer caught in headlights comes to mind. Only now, with hindsight, do I realize how dazed and confused I was back then, unsure of how the whole on location in the film industry thing worked. In the eighteen years since, the strangeness of living in hotel rooms for months on end and becoming part of a temporary film family has become quite normal.

Birds

Back then I had no idea how that film family would impact my life. Last night I sat in Bar Marilu with friends I’ve known for years and laughed for hours about all of the absurd situations we’ve been in together. Eighteen years is a long time! So many film sets, crazy costume designers, racks of clothes being wheeled through arroyos, accidents, fun nights out, insane actors, cities, and adventures.

The Quarter

My recent job turned out to be old home week and I feel immense gratitude for the friendships I get to pop in and out of and for this job I’ve had a love/hate relationship with for almost two decades.

Gratitude

Wowza!

Friends, it’s been a while!! WordPress didn’t recognize me just now when I tried to sign in, but, here I am!

How was your 2021?! Where to begin…?

One year ago feels like a million years ago. Pre vaccine, pre Biden, pre schools re-opening, pre end of tunnel light anywhere to be seen, pre January 6th, pre California spring break road trip, pre unexpected job in Europe, pre Delta/Omicron, pre film industry turmoil, pre realization that we were well into a new normal from which there would be no escape. My expectations for 2021 were low. Travel wasn’t on my radar, work barely was, just getting though seemed like a good goal. And then, on New Years Day, we took our dog for walk and I found a $1 bill on the ground. This changes everything, I thought. 2021 is gonna rock.

And it mostly did. It was a hard year in ways I didn’t expect and a fun year in so many other ways I never saw coming. Bold was the word I wrote down and, though I didn’t remember that until recently, it was a year of saying yes, going for the adventure, and deciding that it was more fun to get on the ride than to sit, watch, and worry.

I’ve spent the past week mulling words over in my mind. What do I want in 2022? I knew the vibe but couldn’t think of the word that would bring it all together- kindness, optimism, adventure, presence, faith, simplicity, trust, grace. I want to see the beauty in the chaos that I am pretty sure is here to stay. I want to answer the question “What if?” with what if it’s way better than I can imagine? I want to lean into the adventure and the butterflies in my stomach with excitement rather than anxiety; two sides of the same coin. I want to give the person having a meltdown in front of me in the checkout line the benefit of a doubt and react with kindness and compassion, or at least not disdain. I want to tune out of the news and take the media with a gigantic grain of salt, realizing it is their job to create anxiety and that it is my job to turn them off. I want to ask for guidance from above and be brave enough to follow it, even when I have no idea where it’s leading. I want to be content with all that I have and to be joyful.

Gratitude.

That’s my word for 2022.

Wishing you and yours a very happy and healthy New Year!!!!

December

Cranes

It’s too warm for December 1st, but also gorgeous out. 65 degrees every darn day. Hard to complain and yet I do.

Heading South

The cranes flew so closely over our heads, I could see their under feathers illuminated by the setting sun. I wore just a sweater, no need for coats this year; good for working outdoors, Covid patio dining, and sunset walks.

Downstream

My dad has binoculars stowed under the pallet we use as a seat on the river’s edge. We watch ducks swim by, unaware of us until, in a frenzy, they are. No elk or beaver tonight. But so many cranes.

Homecoming

That Belgrade hotel room feels like a long time ago. One month home. I made it back in time to smell roasting green chile waft from grocery store parking lots, to see hot air balloons fly en masse over my city, and to watch post season baseball; and without contracting covid, losing my bags or mind, and just before a likely nationwide strike affects the entire film industry. Sigh of relief.

Albuquerque’s International Balloon Fiesta

I was unable to relax for my first two weeks home and tore apart my house, closet, and studio in a frenzied desire to get rid of any and all clutter. It felt like I had suddenly woken up from a 15 month Covid induced nap; 10 pounds heavier, with a dusty and cluttered house. Something about getting out into the world had shaken me up and I brought that adrenaline fueled energy home with me.

Two weeks in, I collapsed on the couch in my clean house and finally slept.

There is a simplicity in Europe that I hope to retain from here. Appreciation for small things, meals, and spaces. Trips to the nearby sea and a really good loaf of bread. Since arriving home, the negotiations between my film Union and that of the Producers have not been going well and I think about the quality of life issues involved. My European co-workers were appalled at the hours that we, the Americans, took as normal and expected. They couldn’t believe that those hours were actually desired in order to bank and keep health insurance and pensions and that so many were ok with giving up time with family and friends in exchange for things they deemed basic rights. It also appeared that they were content with smaller cars, apartments, bank accounts, and vacations than those we deem desirable.

Being away made me realize just how American I am. As my first few weeks home showed me, I am not good at relaxing. I strive and scheme and worry about the future, feeling a desire and need to make it and to keep growing. I think as an individual more than a part. I have managed to slow down recently. The adrenaline has worn off and the to do list has shrunk. It is beautiful here. October in New Mexico, crisp and golden and vast. As an impending industry strike looms, I try to pay attention to the collective. How can I assist? How can I live simply for the time being until we know what will happen? How can I make decisions that move in the direction of quality of life rather than striving for bigger and more? These are the questions I brought home from abroad.

Neighborhood Cacti.