Like (Grand) Father, Like (Grand) Son

Living in New Mexico, it really was inevitable.

Though I told myself I would never acquiesce and do certain things like native New Mexicans - including entering buildings through the left door (as opposed to the conventional right one), making turns without signals, and accepting being two or three minutes late for everything (which pales in comparison to the obligatory "5 to 10 minute" manana complex most people here embrace) - I never saw myself becoming an artist. But then, it happened. 

Here I am incising a piece of clay in the museum studio.

About a month ago, my boss at the museum suggested I take the introductory adult pottery class so I could "have empathy when students' pots blow up." After all, I do administer the studio programs at the museum, so it only makes sense that I have some idea of what students produce in the programs I organize, publicize, and evaluate. At first, I was reluctant, because honestly, I don't feel like I have a creative bone in my body. Sure, I am persuasive, can write fairly well, manage to regularly squeeze a dime out of a nickel and can justify nearly anything better than a politician - thus proving that I am indeed creative - but I haven't expressed myself with the visual arts since freshman year in high school when my friend Vicki abandoned me for a family vacation and I had to finish a larger-than-life plaster of Paris strawberry on my own in Mr. Lomangino's art class.

It's funny... in grammar school I was always winning contests (including the coveted "First Place" award for the Hyde Park Central School District's annual fire prevention poster contest one year), as well as usually producing some of the better art among my classmates. At some point, however - in ninth grade, I would argue - I became more interested in the competitive FDR High "class ranking system" and grew obsessed with grades (as opposed to learning HOW to think I instead MEMORIZED scores of now useless facts and figures and became a nervous wreck), and dropped all interest in art. Paradoxically, my sister pursued her artistic endeavors, while also placing quite high in her class rank, and she has proven that one can be both an artist and an academic success.

Enough reminiscing about the days of yore - back to pottery class. The first class (June 7), I spent 2.5 hours making a tiny bowl, underplate, and some stringy noodles to fill it. When I placed it on the drying rack, I saw little difference between my piece and that of the 5 year olds who produce comparable work daily at the very same tables in the very same classroom. Regardless of my initial insecurity, I realized I had enjoyed a wonderful 2.5 hours during which I spent very little time thinking about work, money, annoying people in my life, dieting, etc... instead, I focused on my hands' manipulation of the material, the organic smell of the clay, and building camaraderie with my fellow fledgling ceramicists.

The following week, I missed class due to an obligatory last-minute strategic planning session for the cultural services department.

I was surprised at how well this little critter turned out.

This week, however, my creative juices were really flowing and I managed to produce a halfway decent bowl with a wood grained edge and a cheeky squirrel sitting on a branch in the interior.  The piece started out as a lump of clay - duh, right? - and slowly morphed into an oval bowl (using a slump mold) that was initially going to be a cat food dish.  Then I used a variety of textured plates and stamps to create my woodland vignette.  Near the end of class when the instructor asked if I was still going to feed my cat out of it, I shot back, "hell, no!  Not after the work I've put into this thing!"

One of Grandpa Albertson's many vessels.

To the point of this post, I think my Grandfather Albertson would be very proud that his little artist who helped him in his pottery studio (I think he called all his grandchildren his "assistants") in the 1980s had come full circle more than two decades later and rediscovered the joys of clay.  Here is one of Grandpa Albertson's vases; it still sits in the bay window in my parents' bedroom in Staatsburg, NY.  Perhaps I will continue playing with clay and one day be able to create such beautiful, functional pieces as he did in his little basement studio so many years ago. 

I will keep you all updated as I progress during my summer ceramics course. 

Any special requests for Christmas gifts handcrafted by me?

Beethoven Does Bluegrass

The title of this post caught your attention, didn't it?  Good, 'cause that was the intent.  We'll get to the connection between Beethoven and Bluegrass, but bear with me, because the launch of this blog is a momentous occasion, and one worth explaining.


For several years now, I've been following the blog of a former coworker who slandered me on the interwebs.  I believe her blog post title for my final day at that illustrious (and stuffy, and stifling, and boring, and backwater) museum was "Ding Dong, the Dickhead's Gone," but I'm not bitter or anything.  In reading her self-absorbed blog religiously for more than six years -- yes, six LONG years of incessant babbling about how "fabulous" and "fantastic" and "amazing" she is -- I became convinced that if a dolt like her could maintain a blog (albeit without the use of spell-check), then why couldn't I?  I'm better read, have concerns beyond my pathetic self, can write to entertain the masses, and dammit, I'm just more interesting than she is.  Plus I can use it as a form of talk therapy.  And as a way to talk about all my priceless thrift store finds.  And maybe we'll even discover along the way together than I have adult ADHD.


So back to good ol' Ludwig. 


I'd been whining for weeks to Owney that I wanted to see Alison Krauss and Union Station in concert at the Mescalero casino.  After checking ticket prices several times -- and having conferred with a coworker who informed me that the concert venue would offer banquet chairs and not stadium-style seating -- I nearly wrote off seeing AKUS.  But then yesterday morning I went on StubHub (admittedly, it wasn't the first time; I'd actually checked prices nearly every day for the past two weeks), and managed to score $85 tickets for $10 each.  Including a service charge and convenience fee, the total was under $30 for both of us to see AKUS, the most winningest Grammy recipient in American music history.


After our two hour drive, arriving within 10 miles of a raging wildfire that is still out of control, we entered the venue and I immediately noticed how "country" the crowd was, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that a woman resembling Beethoven (physically, idiosyncratically, AND couture-ically) quickly caught our attention.  Among middle-aged cowboys, geriatric cowgirls, and more Stetsons than there are native Texans, I was smitten by her navy blue jacket studded with wingback chair-style brass nailheads, not to mention her resemblance to everyone's favorite classical composer.


I swear to you, dear reader, if you look to your left, this is the very same person we saw at the concert last night.  

After some tee-heeing, we hit the bar for a drink (or two, in my case) before locating our cheap seats just 14 rows from center stage. 

Imagine our surprise when we plopped our butts on the hard chairs and discovered that Ludwig was seated directly in front of us. 

Big deal, right?  The lights would soon dim, and the show would begin.

But you'd be wrong. 


Not only was the crowd fairly well-lit the entire show, but Ludwig put on quite a show of his (er, her) own. 


Three things of note soon transpired.  First, she opened her mouth, and Owney and I recognized the accent as that of a Lawwwwng Oyyylander.  Good gravy, there we were on an Apache Reservation, and it was like a bad taste of New Yawk.  Second, she constantly turned her head from side to side, like a chicken, as if expecting her buddy Wolfgang Amadeus at any minute.  Third, and most notable, she clapped the ENTIRE show, which of course would make sense during a foot-stomping bluegrass show, but she did it sporadically, and off-tempo, serving as a constant distraction for everyone within 30 feet for an entire 90 minutes.

So there you have it.  Would you have ever guessed the connection between Beethoven and Bluegrass?  I bet not.

Incidentally, the show was great, even if a haze of smog hung above our heads the entire time from the casino's wafting cigarette smoke.