Artist by Nature, Books by Design

“Boredom is a choice” – Stan Crapo

By Rachel on May 24, 2017

Stan the Man and young Rachel at her home office circa 1980

Oh how I hated that overused yet true-every-time phrase. If I had let it sink in that boredom really is a choice, I could have avoided the many thousand repetitions that landed on my childhood ears. Despite the obvious wisdom, I didn’t stop complaining about being bored until I was dealing with the adventures and stresses of life on my own. Now I have a kid who’s taken up the torch. And somehow, I’ve let boredom creep back into my life.

It’s not like I’m short on things to do – important things. Things I need and want to do. So many of them are exact repeats of what I’ve done the day before, what I’ll do tomorrow, or even in an hour. I often find comfort in daily rituals, but lately I’ve experienced a troublesome level of ennui in them.

I did some extensive researched (45 seconds worth) and found this interesting article about boredom, some points:

– People need to have a reasonable level of psychological energy or arousal to feel bored. When people have low arousal and there is not much happening, they often feel relaxed.

– Boredom typically occurs when people have trouble focusing their attention and they believe the reason for this difficulty is in the environment.

– Bored people become aware of their difficulty concentrating.

Well OK. I’m not using my energy wisely. I’m blaming the confines of family life (which I absolutely cherish and am grateful for) as an excuse to not do things that bring me joy. No one at home is requiring my full attention anymore, I can stop wandering around waiting to be needed. I’ve been so mentally complain-y about my boredom that it’s blocked my view.

I’ve got projects upon projects that should be finished by now – ideas for stories percolating – a room full of art supplies, and a designated space ready and full of sunlight. WHY THE HELL AM I PROCRASTINATING?

I’ve got to tame my social media trigger finger. Too much ingested sludge. Seeing what others create is not the same as creating. There are funny, beautiful bits on social media, but there are funnier, more beautiful bits in my house. (Man + boy + dogs + cat + chickens = hilarious!)

And the news, Lawd have mercy, the news. Unless I’m making it, enough. A little KOOP instead? None of the hits all of the time – perfect! Or equally as wonderful – silence.

I’ve re-engaged with my meditation practice, too, and it’s doing wonders for my ability to concentrate. A dear life-line friend introduced me to the magical voice of David Ji via SoundCloud and it works to calm the brains.

After a whopping three days on a media cleanse and great relief is settling in. I’ve doodled, written, exercised, and stared at walls without malaise. I’ve moved into the sweet spot of flow while working. Evenings spent playing games with my two dudes is fun again.

So, thanks Dad, for reminding me over and over that I am in control of myself. That I can choose daily to be bored or engaged. That consistency is powerful. He has been my best example of how sheer will and hard work are the building blocks of the life you want.

I will end with another famous Stanism –

“Let’s rock and roll sports fans!”

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Treasures

“Keep only those things that speak to your heart.” – Marie Kondo

By Rachel on May 19, 2017

The ice cream cone pens still retain a slightly vanilla smell, which should probably be alarming though I find it somehow comforting.

I am quoting Marie Kondo in jest because this post is about finding treasures I’ve saved since sixth grade. Not that I take her ideas lightly, I own her book and have applied her method to my wardrobe. Er, part of my wardrobe. My tops actually. Just my tops. Took all day. (I still couldn’t let go of my collection of hot/cute/tiny T-shirts I wore during my stint as a bartender in Manhattan. Guess they still bring me joy?) Anyway.

For the record, one could only qualify me as a hoarder if I didn’t know what I had and where it was. Since I do however, it seems more likely that I am a great keeper of treasures. Such as this sweet box of notes from middle school.
My best friend from third grade, Kim (Morris the Cat as we called her) and I (Strawberry as we called me) made these boxes to house our in-class correspondence. We wrapped our boxes using the same paper. Hers had purple cats on top and pink below and I, the opposite. We were cleaver that way.

And what treasures I did find!

I don’t know if every middle schooler created cartoon versions of themselves, but Kim and I had a rich history of drawing with and for each other. I eventually moved to Texas and we became avid pen pals. I still have her beautiful letters (of course), neatly penned, well illustrated and full of little cut out bits from magazines and hand drawn E.T. and Fraggles.

One of my many sticker collections. And yes, I still collect them. They are so fun! I never stick them!

Shaun Cassidy? Oh yes… one of my many teen crushes… Da Doo Ron Ron me.

I was once advised by a friend (we’ll call her Kris) to let go of the extraneous stuff and paper in my life and experience the lightness of being minimalist. Why I would ever listen to such rubbish is only because she housed a large quantity of my life in her garage when I moved to New York. That, and, she herself lived a gorgeously minimalist life.

Each Texas visit I went to Kris’s to see my stuff. I have a vivid memory of sitting on her living room floor with a large box of correspondence from college summers, high school writing projects, love letters, band flyers and a paper trash bag. Kris’s vision was for me to make a haul to recycling or fuel a back yard burn pile. Instead I lovingly read each piece of paper, remembering where I was when I first read or wrote it, confronted with parts of my life I had forgotten or just wasn’t ready to forget. It was exhausting and I didn’t get far.

I gave up trying to let go and told Kris I would definitely for sure get my stuff on my next trip. (For the record, it stayed there until my eventual husband picked it up on his way to meet me in Durango for our eventual life with our eventual child. So, four and a half years in total. Thanks Kris!)

Why did I hang on to so much paper? My Psych 101 training tells me that moving around so much as a kid created a need for such an extensive paper trail. My memory has never been particularly strong and with so many chapters to tie together – so many addresses, schools, friends in different states – saving paper was a way to help keep it all straight.

Here I am, 15-ish years later, digitizing my paper trail and wondering – is the box meaningful? Is it necessary? Does it speak to my heart? Does it take up psychological space I could be using for something else? Should I burn it and find out? Maybe I’ll just read all the notes first… then decide.

Typo Lessons

“Yield to death rather than betray trust” – Pruis Mon Quam Falleri Fidem

By Rachel on May 10, 2017

I’ve decided to air my shame about something that’s been nagging me for a while now. There are two things really, but I’ll start with this one first. It’s been rotting in my creative garden, hindering new growth so I’m digging it up, airing it out, and putting it in the compost. To do that, I must tell the story of how I missed a typo.

I once spent a very good amount of time and focus to make a book for dear family friends. I traveled to their house in southern Colorado, sorted through their photos then scanned and scanned and scanned. It was a gift for my friend’s mother and he wrote beautifully all he knew of his parents. We went over family information, sorted through military medals and accolades, family crests and geneologies. We considered how to approach the ever painful event of losing a child. It was an intimate process and one I will treasure. He is one of my dad’s all time best friends and favorite people, so it was an added treat to drink wine at night and discuss ol’Stan in loving ways.

I returned home to Brooklyn, hit my basement office, and set to work making a book.

I created a time line and organized images into categories accordingly, then worked on thumbnail sketches of page layouts – my favorite part.

Drawing out the book is fun because I feel ideas in my hands for a moment. As the book takes shape and the bird’s eye view fills out, it sets the pace of the book. It becomes a little mini map that tells how many pages are allotted for ancestors or weddings or babies or what have you.

This was before the time of oline book making companies so I utilized the digital print shop I previously worked for in Dallas. They took care of printing (on two different kinds of papers), collating, trimming, delivery to the binder, pick up from the binder and shipping. The binder was this amazing craftsman I met while setting up a wedding book product years before. I’d experienced his handy work with my own eyes and hands.

I delivered a gorgeous, leather bound family heirloom along with a cool mother’s day card for him to give to his mum, and got paid a real money – $3,000! After the cost of production for five books (four for he and his family, one for me) my take away was a little over $2,000. It was difficult to ask for at the time, but I swelled with pride when I deposited that check – even made a copy of it for posterity. Great pay for good work.

Except BLAM. Mudder flippin typo. Right there on the opening page. A relative billboard set in huge letters, alone on the page with a graphic. Nothing to divert the eye from the blaring stain on an otherwise perfect project.

To make it worse, I only realized it a couple of years ago – too many miles past the last rest stop for being able to fix or replace it easily or cheaply. The thought of this book with it’s ugly mishap living in people’s houses – my friends! – turns my stomach.

How could I have missed it? Why didn’t anyone say anything? What is the lesson here? I have been secretly, relentlessly, shamefully asking myself these questions.

The answer is – I didn’t ask for help. All I needed was one other human to read through and it would have been golden. I lived with a trained writer for crying out loud, working in HER basement apartment!

So, what to do about it? I’ve been debating this for awhile. Wait for the mud to settle and the water to clear and sometimes opportunity will create a course of action for you.* Through an upcoming opportunity, I will be able to connect with new folks who may also be interested in heritage style books. Meaning – time to create new samples… of this book… with NO typos! What a wonderful day when I can deliver revised copies to my friend and finally breath easy.

In the mean time – I’ll ask for help more often. There’s no shame in that, only the honor of having someone else’s expertise.

*I just discovered this gem of wisdom:

“Do you have the patience to wait

Till your mud settles and the water is clear?

Can you remain unmoving

Till the right action arises by itself?”

― Lao Tzu

Yearbooks

“There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart” – Washington Irving

By Rachel on May 4, 2017

Cover art for our yearbook, created by a 5th grade talent

Every year I volunteer at my son’s school for various things. It’s been one of my favorite parts about being a mom – playing with kids. I’ve lead many art projects and built photo booths and helped throw parties. I’ve been a room parent, done gratis graphic design work, lead class experiments; field trips of course, as well as stuffed envelops, cut paper for teacher projects, hung art on walls, delivered teacher appreciation gifts, helped students create art for fundraisers…. created class books for fundraisers. Wow. Listing all of this I suddenly realize where my energy has been for the last seven years!

The yearbook has been one of my favorite gigs, and as I’ve stopped doing the other volunteer stuff, I know I can’t quit the yearbook. (Except for the fundraiser art. I loved designing those books so much I started a business doing it.) It’s such a satisfying role to just be there observing and collecting images of what I see on field trips and during class presentations and school performances. Culling photos with a narrow focus. Eyes open on this one, smile blurry on that one, a quick photoshop fix and a better group photo emerges. Laying out pages is my kind of puzzle. Balancing size, shape, content, kids, and events is a truly fun challenge.

I like having a place to land my photos and the other great shots parents and teachers contribute. The collection is the fun part. And I get to see them in print for the rest of time. I spaz out on my kid’s personal pages and include his art and school work, travel pictures, birthday parties, sleep overs, sports, a couple family shots and at least one picture of each pet. He ends up with a complete story of the year for his memories to root.

This little visual timeline of my son’s school life and all these great kids he spends his days with, all the ways his teachers work their asses off to get them to think on their own – it’s some of my most satisfying photography.

What a gratifying opportunity to watch their faces evolve from plump ‘lil kid cuteness into angular adult-like good looks, their expressions deepening and humor developing in jolts. Their questioning and pushing and expanding in ever growing waves. Independence in a tenuous tug-of-war with baby-like emotional neediness and dramatic flair ups. I get to witness my son’s life as it exists in the context of so many personalities.

I am both in the middle of their energy, welcomed because I offer gifts of pictures, and outside of it, where kids prefer adults be, because I spend much of my time with a lens between us. They have grown accustomed, immune really, to my fluttering in and out of their peripherals, poking in here and there. I never tell them to smile and I often don’t tell them where to look.

As my son sprints towards twelve, so does his want and need for independence. I am losing power over him. Not my influence certainly, but I no longer have the power to hold his attention for days at a time. I knew it was coming and I’m not regretful or sad. I had my time in the mud puddle and I’m still in the classroom and when I’m relegated to obligatory phone calls, I hope I am equally as busy as he. But for now, he still wants to show me things and tell me about what this one kid said or try a magic trick or experiment with me. And he still spends his summers flipping through the latest yearbook, a small vestige of my time in his world.

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