I didn’t consider all the details involved when, Patches threw down the gauntlet and requested pictures of hands. It’s difficult it is to photograph your own hands. Really, how do you operate the camera with no hands if you are the only one home? An extremely talented big toe, perhaps? I found myself with two options. One, ask one of the bricklayers next door to take a picture for me. Two, set up the tripod, and shoot twenty or so until I got a passable result. I went with number two. If asked the laborers next door, I would want to photograph their hands, and well, that might seem awkward…. It’s only fair, I post pictures of my hands (click the thumbnail, for a better view). I’m not one to ask of others what I wouldn’t be willing to submit to myself.

My grandmother’s were the first hands I remember noticing. Hers are very distinct, with oversized knuckles from arthritis. The last joint on her middle finger is crooked, banana shaped. When I inspect my own hands, I see the beginning stages of her banana finger. The day will come when I try to flip someone off, and I point to my eyebrows by default.

My husbands hands were the first physical characteristic about him I remember contemplating. They were so much larger than my own. I don’t know if was their size that captivated me, or the way the made me feel tiny in comparison. Soft and un-calloused, a smooth touch against my cheek or cradling the small of my back. I never really felt petite until the first time he touched me.

My own hands. What can I say that you won’t be able to deduce from the picture? Some months they are covered in cuts and band-aids. I don’t like to wear gloves, because they deprive you of tactile sensations. I have scars from chisels, wood and linoleum carving tools, and kitchen knives. My knuckles have faint scars from an altercation I had with Big Bertha. I haven’t spoken to her since. I’ve trimmed my left index finger with an x-acto knife…twice in two weeks. I’ve been known to write notes to myself on the top of my hand. I’ve never had stitches because it’s always too damn inconvenient, and you can do wonders with a bottle of peroxide and a tube of super glue.

Not much of a mystery, but maybe a little history.

When glancing at my sidebar yesterday, I noticed I covered the life and bitching objectives pretty well (especially the bitching part), but I had neglected to post about art. Isn’t that the way things go. You begin with the best of intentions to engage people in an ongoing dialogue, but instead you end up complaining about your real life. Well, onward…

Four civic-minded entrepreneurs opened a French style market, downtown. It’s a large space geared towards eclectic offerings. They have a framing shop, various beverage offerings, truffles, coffee, and free wireless. Vendors offer prints, pottery, handmade jewelry, baskets, furniture and used books. Art lines the walls and is sold on consignment.

A friend from college handles their marketing, vendor and consignment relations. She’s a good artist in her own right, and an exceptional people person. In college, she was one of the positive forces in my life. Having her in my corner was like having my own cheerleader.

The last time I spoke with her, she encouraged me to place art on consignment. I haven’t exhibited publicly in seven years for a variety of reasons (a post for another time). I’ve been making art, but sporadically and most of isn’t framed. I told her I would consider submitting (my effort at appeasement), but I didn’t make any promises.

Last weekend, I found three landscapes from my last exhibition while I was preparing the guest room. Conveniently, they were all matted and framed. Officially out of excuses, I labeled the work and delivered it to the market. It isn’t necessary to state the best case scenario (I wouldn’t want to jinx it), but the worst case is the market stores my art for three months and I pick it up if it doesn’t sell. No sell equals no expense….So I guess it is win-win. Provided there isn’t a flood, fire, or tornado.

English Landscape I © 2000

These landscapes were inspired by my brief study abroad in the UK. I will post pictures of the other two in the weeks to come. Obligatory Technical Information: The base media is viscosity monoprint. Details were added with colored pencil and oil pastel. Color may shift depending on your monitor settings.

Saturday, my sixteen year-old niece spent the day with me instead of keeping vigil at the hospital with the rest of the family. I was both surprised and relieved. Surprised, because few teenagers want to hang out with someone my age. But relieved, because I remembered vividly what her grandmother was like after three days in the hospital for the previous surgery. I couldn’t think of a good reason for a her to spend eight hours around a confused combative woman while her parents watched helplessly. She’s mature enough to handle it, but I want to protect her from it for now.

My life is mundane when compared to the drama teenagers cope with every day of high school. I’m not old enough to have forgotten what it was like (but really, is anyone?). I’m thankful my time in adolescence is over. Occasionally I burn a yearbook in hopes of appeasing the gods of puberty. (I hear they are on speaking terms with the gods of menopause and I want them to put in a good word for me when the time comes.)

My niece is quiet and soft spoken when surrounded by grownups, but one on one is a different story. She spoke with me candidly, and for a single day I remembered a part of my life I’ve worked exceptionally hard to forget. She’s bookish, introspective, and consumed by socializing. The complexity of teenage relationships has changed very little since my glory days tenure in hormone hell.

We passed time in a used book store gathering ammunition for the summer months, exchanging author preferences and comparing cover snobbery. It is nice to experience the world through young eyes. Eventually, the rain showers and the promise of fresh baked brownies inspired us to return home.

After a quick game a foosball, we lay on the air mattress in the guest room listening to the sound of rain falling gently to the earth. She spoke briefly about peacefulness and comfortable silences while we listened to the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan. It was a welcome calm before the storm.

Moments before I could close my eyes, the phone rang crushing the quiet and jump-starting my heart. My husband, calling to announce his departure from the grocery store. Soon the house would be filled with warm bodies and fresh seafood. Let the madness begin…But for one moment, one brief moment, we shared an easy quiet in an empty house.

Thursday morning’s drama left me sleep deprived. Mr Hombre’s brother suggested that I catch a cat nap in the hospital when Mrs. One Eye was resting semi-peacefully (a.k.a snoring louder than a chain saw). I considered the possibility then quickly concluded I didn’t want to wake up sporting a foley with a catch bag clipped to my waistband. Hey, it happened to her…. Little did I know, Brother jinxed all my future attempts at cat napping. Did you know there is a direct correlation between my eyes closing and the phone ringing? Yes, every time.

Telephones scare me. They are couriers of bad news, drama, wrong numbers, and distant family who’s salutation ability is confined to, “who’s this”. Well crap, you called me. Show a little decorum, identify yourself first, then feel free to ask who I am. Looks like my irritability isn’t camouflaged very well.

The surgery was Friday, and went as expected. Mister Hombre’s youngest brother’s family arrived late afternoon and spent the weekend with us. The house has been bustling with activity for the past three days. It has been a pleasure hosting such pleasant house guests, but my head is full and I’m looking forward to a little down time.

I tried to catch a nap on two separate occasions, Friday. Both attempts were foiled by the beloved Mister Hombre calling with dinner plans and hospital updates. Everyone stayed up well past midnight. At 2 AM, sleep was disrupted by a call from the hospital. Mrs. One Eye kept getting out of bed. Yes, the day of her surgery she was getting out of bed and walking. No, she didn’t know where she was. Mister Hombre went to the hospital and remained with her until morning.

I have not retuned to the hospital. I’m undecided whether I will do so. I feel foolish standing in a room with five or six others who talk over and around the patient, pretending things are normal. Often ignoring the patient until she says something like, “I don’t understand why they don’t provide enough chairs for company,” or “They should really bring some coffee and doughnuts”. Just like the Howard Johnson’s only with transfusions and open backed gowns. Thursday was different. She was alone, in pain, and confused. Okay, maybe it really wasn’t that different…