Running From Cameras and Other Monsters

My editor is out of town helping a friend move.  This means he probably won't get around to editing this post before I publish it.  Good luck you wonderful people trying to make since of my poor grammar.

In all honesty the painting, as I type this, isn't complete.  But that is ok. After I struggle with words I'll go back to the studio.

So the painting that will be posted is about the time I gave my statement to the detective at the courthouse.  I remember talking to a man for what seemed like hours. He was actually kind and thoughtful. Which is good because at that time I probably would have shut down with any other treatment. After this happened I went to the waiting area where my mom was.  On the way to the elevator she pulled me into the bathroom.  She wanted me to change my clothes into something she had brought.  She told me how 'they' have people waiting in the lobby to see who gets called for what.  When who they are waiting for leave 'they' call down to the camera people. My mom had probably rushed home and grabbed whatever clothes she could find.  Unfortunately her daughter was extremely insecure.  The clothes she chose were awful from a teenagers point of view.  If they figured out who I was and got me on camera I didn't want to be wearing shorts, a polo shirt, and a ball cap (none of these things did I ever wear).  So I stuck with the bright yellow dress I had on.  And either my  mom was so defeated by that point or kept her head and let me make the decision I will never know.

I made it down the elevator and through the lobby.  Thought the coast was clear until I got right out side the door and heard running feet. I wasn't sure what it was at first.  There was one camera woman.  I can't explain the rush of emotions I had.  Anger, fear, sadness, I wanted to say or do the right thing so she knew she was being mean. She kept shoving the camera at me.  Trying to provoke me. Instead I looked ahead with my chin up.  Or maybe at the ground with my head down. it's hard to remember.  I'm sure I half ran to the car with my mom.  I never saw the footage.   But heard they showed it. I remember thinking during and after it happened that the woman looked like she belonged on the fringes of society like myself and that we might have been friends.  It was also one of my first encounters directly with an adult being forcefully a jerk to me.  That doesn't sound right.  I felt like it was the first time I was around someone who didn't know me but who was playing the part of the vulture.  She was doing her job... But then again... one of my memories of my dad is him saying: 'With the cameras these days (1996) there is no need to get in someone's face'.  It translated to me as 'despite all this horror and shame you've brought on this family, I love you and I'm sorry someone was a jerk to you'. 

Anyways, I'm going to try and self edit this post and get back to painting.

 Here is the painting- It's 8 x8" and I'll call it the tittle of this blog post.
 It's funny. I put all this detail in the reflection in the camera lens then had to destroy it to make it look more like a reflection.. Oh! I wanted my photo reference. Even caught myself looking around my desk for the photo reference in the middle of painting. But, I saw this awesome show by this wonderful artist who works from memory and I copied her style. I'm not sure how you'd feel about having your name in this blog so I'm leaving it out.. but you know who you are.

Just got a text from my editor 'proof read and spell check'.  yup.  ok good people it's up to you to tell me what I did wrong grammatically.

Till next week... well, the Xmas thing is about to happen so if I miss a Tuesday or two no worries. Xmas cards and gifts need buying and sending.

Drive Home

A Happy Pollywog

I am told I was a happy pollywog.  As a kid my sister would lovingly tell me that I truly came from Sea Monkeys.  Maybe I'll redo this work on paper as Sea Monkeys and not frogs.  It's a childhood idea of a loving protective family so I chose a frog family to capture the spirit.

Our family was pretty much like others.  Actually it was better then most as seen on the outside... and probably on the inside too if you aren't an angst-ridden teenager.*  A married mom and dad, a big sister to look out for me, a roof over my head, food in my belly. What more could a pollywog want? Maybe we'll find out next week.

*A note to teenagers:  Life is hard.  It will get better but life as an adult is also hard.  You'll learn the tricks to get by.  I don't mean to knock on teenagers so much.  I mean to knock on myself as a teenager. Obviously I wasn't a very good one.

Where to Start?

There is never a simple story.  What one thing led to another that caused X to happen? ... No, I take that back. There are simple stories -- they just aren't worth repeating.  Maybe I can put down enough of all the fragments of memories swimming around in my head so the reader might have an idea of what happened.  Or maybe so I can, after all this time, have a better understanding of what happened.  Ultimately, this project isn't for the outside reader, but for Heather and me. Why make it public, then?  It already is public.  The world thinks they know what happened.  But I remember reading complete lies in the newspaper.  Things made up by the reporters, mostly based around sex. Why not just tell the story straight?  First, memory doesn't work that way.  I've spent a lot of time trying not to think of these things that have haunted me. It will be hard to bring them back up -- not just hard to remember but hard, emotionally.  Second, some of the small stories might have just a little bit of Heather or me in them, so you learn who we are.  So we remember who we are. Why not jog my memory by reading the true crime books and watching the TV specials, or going over court transcripts?  I'm scared.  I'm really really scared of my past.  I don't want to confront it or even do this blog.  Maybe after working on this blog for a while I will go back and look up times and dates and names.  Until then here is a jumble of my foggy memory.  It won't come out pretty but it will come out. 

With My Heart on My Sleeve I Appologize

It's true.  I share too much. I wear my heart on my sleeve.  Some people call my art 'honest.'  Maybe it is.  Maybe I just don't have an edit button.

I must apologize.  First, I apologize for my existence.  It's true that I didn't do the things that caused two lovely people, Ruth and Rick Wendorf , to lose their lives in such a horrible way.  It is also true that if I had not been in certain places at certain times they would be alive now, 18 years later. My apology to them for whatever part I played in ending their lives prematurely is the greatest.  I extend that apology to their family, especially to Heather and her sister.  I must also apologize to my family: the pain I caused, the awkward angst of youth and so much more.  And I apologize to all these people again because going about life, day to day, suppressing these memories isn't good enough any longer. There has been a buzzing in the back of my head for a couple of years now to do this project.  Other then this project being a blog, I do not know what form this will take.  I know it won't unfold pretty like a rose.  It will come out in bits and pieces as I remember.  It won't only be about that major event, but of all the events in my childhood and adolescence.  I also hope it will be much less wordy then this first blog and more about the art.  I'm tired of TV and film companies coming and trying to get me to tell my side of the story to 'help at-risk teenagers.'  They don't respond when I ask them which non-profit organization they'll be donating their profits to.

With Heather's blessing, I'm scheduling this post to publish on November 25th, 2014.  18 years after Heather's mom and dad (It's how I think to call them even now) were murdered.  I am hoping to honor them in this small way.