I write honestly about the way I see the world, and sometimes I may say more than I should. Sometimes restraint is more effective than revelation. Sometimes I just need to keep my little chicken lips shut. Diplomacy… a virtue I’m working on in communist China.

The kids in this village, like many rural places, have a certain sense of innocence about them. They are not addicted to digital media, and none of them have cell phones. It doesn’t matter if their cloths are clean or their hair is styled. They are willing to play and laugh out loud.

The flip side to that innocence is that it’s easily influenced by ignorance.

Kids survive with adequate sustenance and affection. Education is what separates the ones who survive, from the ones who thrive. It’s the only way to offer the next generation an existence better than our own, and good parents and teachers have worked to ensure this for centuries. It’s how our society progresses. So what if you’re caught in a system that operates on a slightly different set of values. What if the only way to create change, and improve a system that barely meets your basic needs, requires you to ruffle the feathers of a very powerful chicken? What if you are only 9 or 10 years old? Most likely, you keep your little chicken lips shut, and move along.

I have said many times that I believe ART is the fourth basic human need, right after food, water, and shelter. I believe it even comes before education, because it opens the pathways to critical thinking, making any education easier to absorb. It also develops self-awareness, fostering compassion and a sense of community.

This notion, combined with my desire to empower girls, is the basis for my Mighty Fingers Facing Change project. Kevin Macpherson, a fellow painter with the same kind of mindset and wanderlust, started an organization called ArtAmbassodor.org, his focus being kids. We swapped stories years ago about what drives us to this work, and it’s been fun to watch each other’s progress. I’m proud to participate in this collaboration between Kevin’s ArtAmbassador.org and Jugian.org.

Jiuqian.org provides programming and education for the children of migrant workers in Shanghai. They also provide programming and support in the villages where these migrant workers come from. This project, happening simultaneously in three villages, was a pilot project designed to give these kids a sense of identity and pride about their roots. We used art as a medium for exploration, expression, and empowerment. We were also asked to create a piece of collaborative art at each school.

Much of the work I do for Mighty Fingers requires asking a lot of questions. We work to help girls think creatively, so they can find their own alternative solutions to a variety of life’s challenges. The more work I do, the more questions I ask. This was a hard trip for me, and it inspired many questions. So many that Mr. Zhang may be happy to see me depart 🙂

I greatly admire the work that Mr. Zhang is doing through Jiuqian.org. He’s very good at dancing with the powerful chicken. He knows the steps. I don’t. I’ve worked hard to keep my chicken lips closed, and I hope I’ve added some value to his work. I hope that he will continue his effort to create a better future for the kids in rural China. I hope that someday soon he will be able to provide his programs under his own terms, rather than being dictated by those that recognize their power rather than their responsibility. I hope that his NGO will be supported by some of the corporate entities that make their billions through the labor of these people. He offers something to these kids that no one else does.

In April 2016, Jiuqian.org will produce an exhibition in Shanghai about the work we did in each village. We hope that through this exhibition, Jiuqian.org will find more support to continue this programming in Shanghai, and in the rural villages in China. He can use some help in designing it. We have great pictures and stories from the kids. We have video and data.

Do you do business in China? Would you like to support this exhibition and this valuable programming? Here’s your chance.

If you want to speak to Mr. Zhang directly and ask about what he is doing and what he needs most? – here he is.

Would you like to help spread ART to kids around the world through ArtAmbassador.org? This is the reason I’m here. Here is your link.

Would you like to use ART to empower adolescent girls around the world with your Mighty Fingers? You Go Girl… Right Here!

Can you help move any of this work forward and want to speak to me directly? I’m here, and interested.

 

 

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It was a long day of travel that landed us here at midnight. The power was out. I couldn’t see much, but what I saw made me wonder if I should have asked more questions. I was beyond tired. I managed to brush my teeth in a very unkempt bathroom and decided that that was enough maintenance for the night. I dropped my jeans in front of a roommate I didn’t know and threw on my PJ’s. I climbed between two comforters that made up my bedding, atop a sheet of plywood. I put in earplugs and passed out. I slept better than anticipated.

I’m in China by invitation from a fellow painter, Kevin Macpherson. His organization, ArtAmbassador.org is collaborating with Jiuqian.org, an NGO based in China that supports the children of migrant workers, of which there are many.

Arriving in Shanghai I realized that Google and Facebook were not allowed so posting has been slow. I sucked up the local color for two days then set off for the province of Xishuanagbanna, to the Long Lin Elementary School.

The Long Lin School building is new, and currently still under some construction. Things move at a different pace here, and expectations of anything you’re accustomed to should be flushed. It took me a full day to mentally adjust, but I’m in it now.

This school is a rural school, and most teachers prefer to work in big-city schools where they make more money. Many of the teachers here are local people. They teach Chinese and math, and that’s it. The government still sends supplies for all of the other subjects, and they are thrown on the fourth floor in an unused classroom waiting for someone to use them. We spent the first day wading through boxes to determine what could go to ‘The Art Room”. There was plenty. Basic shapes cast in plaster, busts for sketching, LOTS of paper, paints, markers, easels, spotlighting, sculpting and block printing tools… no books or teachers, but plenty of supplies to inspire young minds, in dust-covered boxes… waiting. Mr. Zhang and his team and I waded through the boxes while the principal and teachers napped after a long rice wine-filled lunch.

Day two in Long Lin:

Noodles for breakfast, which I’ve become addicted to. They are covered with ground pork, tomatoes, broth, peanuts, chili peppers and soy, and if that doesn’t get your day going, nothing will.

My bathroom has been abandoned. The principal decided that the kids made it too messy so now it’s reserved for “volunteers”. That’s me. They didn’t clean it for me, but it’s all mine. I have my own key, so when I squat near the non-curtained window, no one will come in through the locked door. There is a curtain on the sink side though, but it’s taped up for some strange reason, and a poor gecko got stuck in the tape and died there, and there he remains.

My class began at 9:30, and the kids were excited. I was excited. Mr. Zhang translated for me and we talked about why art matters, and what we were going to do about it, and then we did it. My class is followed by lunch, and then a nap, which I’m convinced, is more for the teachers than the students. The ‘napping’ was followed by a really great walk through a village up the road with Mr. Zhang and the kids. We climbed steps to elevated houses, livestock downstairs, family upstairs. We talked to elders about traditions from the past, and what they hope to see for the future of their grandchildren. We roamed around, all the kids very much at home – boys being hooligans and girls giggling, and me, the light haired stranger. My light hair scared at least one child, and perhaps a few dogs. I took over 100 pictures (which have disappeared from my hard drive). I had a great day.

Day three and day four in Long Lin: very much the same, though the dinners were taken outside the school, both at the home of teachers. Eating here has been an adventure. I haven’t mastered chopsticks, but I can get food to my mouth. I’ve eaten so many things that I thought I never would, with the exception of intestines – but the project is not over yet. Chopsticks dip from bowl to bowl, and if your good at it, you take what you touch. If you’re not, you fumble around the bowl. Or if your eating soup or something saucy, forget about it – you’re all in it together. I’ve expanded my pallet with pig blood stew, chicken feet, whole shrimp (eyeballs and all), pigs ears, fish skin, and broths made of who knows what. It’s all been good and plentiful. I’ll go home looking like a dumpling.

 

The kids here are the best part, and the reason that I’m happy I came. They are silly and excited to share and learn. They are happy and helpful, and full of life, and they think I’m funny.

I’ve had no time to paint on my own, as my days are scheduled (except for when the teachers nap, then I hand wash my cloths and try to get the internet to work).

Tomorrow is the last day of class before the kids go home for the Chinese New Year holiday. Mr. Zhang and his team and I will be spending a few days with students and their families to see how they celebrate the New Year. I will be painting, though not at all sure I will have access to the Internet. More soon, I hope. I’m very pleased to be here, and growing with all of it.

 

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History class in middle school: at the time, I didn’t see much use in it. My teacher was round and monotonous, unable to make much of anything stick in my head. We started a new chapter – Hitler. That stuck. I grew up in a middle class family, well protected from the atrocities of the world. We went to church. We had Sunday dinners. We felt safe and loved.

Hitler shattered my naive mind. I did not believe it at first. I thought it was a story. I did not understand that such cruelty was possible in this world. It was beyond the boundaries of my young bucolic mind. I moved through the chapter with sustained disbelief, slowly accepting that this was not just a tale. People lived it, and they surely died it. I thanked a god I was not certain I believed in that it was history, and I went about my creative way, seeking…something.

Tenacity kept me focused on my art. At the time it didn’t matter how skilled I was, only that I was determined to follow nothing else. I avoided politics at all cost, asserting that it was all theatrics and that there was no way of telling the sinner from the saint. I told myself that I would affect the world in other ways – the political pulpit was not for me.

Conversely, I’ve been married to a man for nearly 20 years who read voraciously about it. He’s passionate about the debacle we call democracy. On any given day, I could have been exposed to the footnotes of current events from an opinion I well respected and enjoyed robust conversations about the nasty state of the world and the hand that our politicians have played in creating it. But I chose to remain focused on joy, beauty, and laughter… every time. He doesn’t discuss politics with me anymore, unless I pose the occasional question “what’s messed up in the world today Tommy?”, then he’s glad to share.

Last week, on way home from a FingerSmear™ project in Disney World, I picked up a New York Times in the airport. I read about random killings around the world perpetrated by men in the name of god, slaughtering humanitarians, teachers, tourists, and children. My tired, rose-colored bubble went grey. I held off the tears in the Orlando airport, and I can’t seem to see the world in the same way anymore.

A few weeks earlier I’d just returned from Uganda. It was an amazing trip that I was hesitant to take considering the state of the world. Leading up to the trip I’d heard of the attacks in Paris, Mali, and Turkey. I knew there was unrest in parts of Uganda, but I wanted to go so I skimmed past the headlines and my husband’s suggestions to “skip this one”, and I went. It was everything I hoped for, and I’m happy that fear did not stop me.

My flight home through Istanbul missed another attack by only a few days. The Ugandan village I’d worked in soon buried a pregnant woman beaten to death by her husband. He still roams free while four motherless children try to work out their fate. Syrian refugees walk their malnourished and dehydrated children across deserts to escape the war. Girls in so many parts of the world still fight for education and access to basic human rights. We try to feel safe at home in America while clowns take over our political system, ignorance spreads hate like a red tide, and we raise a generation of children addicted to media, porn, and digital battlefields, too many without a basic understanding of ethics and compassion for their fellow human beings.

Most of my adult life I’ve been looking for beauty. I try to see it in everything I paint. I find it because I’m looking for it, and I tell my students that it’s there for the taking. We are surrounded by it, especially if our bubbles are well protected. My bubbles have been through some stress testing the past couple of years and its skin has grown thin. I feed it, I try to nurture it. I want it to be hardy and strong. I want to be safe. I want to see only beauty, but I don’t anymore.

My blind faith in ‘those with powerful positions’ has allowed me to be lazy, though it has not served me well. I believe that the work I’ve done has offered some good to the world and that I have not wasted my time here, but I no longer only want to paint the beauty – because it’s only half the equation. I have a growing sadness for those that have had to live such suffering at the hands of mankind, then, and now. And I’m still suffering from that sustained disbelief that humans can be so cruel to each other, and juggling all of it against a god I’m still not sure I believe in.

My rose-colored bubble has turned gray. I still look for beauty every day, and I find it, somewhere. I know that the richness of color is only made more brilliant by the balance of grays. I believe that the world needs art today more than ever and that an understanding of its power is so critical in this delicate and brutal world. But the world is not always pretty, and if art is to be truthful, it cannot be either.

We’ve been working to bring Mighty Fingers Facing Change to Uganda for over a year. When I had to write last year and tell them that I did not have the money to produce the project there, I felt sad. I felt like I had let them down, and I had let myself down. So I decided to do what I could, with what I had. I sponsor the education of two girls in Amor Village each month. I spend $75 a month on each of them, to make sure they are able to attend school in Kampala (three hours from the village), have access to medical care, eat, and have shelter. So much, for so little. I just received this video from Gloria, one of “my” girls. We are finally bringing Mighty Fingers Facing Change to Amor Village, and I’m excited to meet her, and all of the girls, and to work with such an incredible grassroots organization that is changing their future. Help us do more while we are there but supporting our campaign. Thank you in advance.

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I launched an Indiegogo campaign today.  Most people will have the joy of never understanding the stress and anxiety that goes along with doing such a thing. No matter how lame or grand your idea, you are tied to it in a VERY personal way.  It means something to you, deeply.  You want to be supported in your efforts – not just financially, but emotionally –and in this instance the two blend together in a very strange way.  You find yourself elated by those that reach out and support you in any way, and genuinely disappointed by those who don’t. “Kelly, you can’t expect to hit it out of the park everyday”, my sweet husband said.  But, I do.  I do.  I want to hit it out of the park, or I would not bother to play ball.

I didn’t sleep well last night.  I had a lot on my mind and there was no settling it. We launched at 10AM and I spent hours in my digital world, working to spread word.  My tired eyes and brain stumbled through those most likely to back me up.  By 3pm I was at The Left Bank Grill with a glass of chardonnay and a French onion béchamel pizza (beyond bliss and calorie count).  I sat quietly and worked through the emails, pushing around numbers, juggling the ‘what if’ scenarios, and forcing out the conversations around me.  “I would never go to Europe, there are crazies everywhere just waiting to snatch up Americans”, the elderly, well dressed women at the table next to me declared to her companion.  “Oh, I have no problem with Europe” he replied.  “Well you have to think about it. You would be crazy not to think about it!” she demanded.  I wanted to stand up and proclaim – “Oh for God sake! EUROPE, …REALLY???… EUROPE!!!”  Are we such slaves to the wild factions of the world that we are afraid to go to Europe? I contemplated the sacrifices of our ancestors in Europe and beyond, and the chaos that is our current world. I sat quietly and worked, my dumbfounded rage easing off, and the thought slowly entered – “AM I crazy?”  No. I’m not crazy. There is as much good, as there is bad, and the balance is tipped by our actions, or lack of them. My heart is not afraid of going, it’s afraid of staying.

Please visit the Mighty Fingers Facing Change campaign here.

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I have, on occasion, thought I must be mad. I contemplate the unthinkable.. shutting out all that seems comfortable and expected, important and worthwhile. I fantasize about a total lack of responsibility, a vintage camper and nothing to direct my focus but beauty and random strangers. I imagine that I’ll fill my time with bursts of creativity. Not only painting, but writing plays and stories, comedy, songs, playing music, and inventing something not yet seen. I think about dancing, alone, or not. I enjoy the unobstructed luxury of pouring myself fully into whatever creative endeavor takes my fancy, and perhaps something brilliant spills out. Attention to diverse endeavors and the boldness to jack up and fail will produce something more than the predictable five-o’clock uncorking and numbness that seems to wrap up the day. I have a curiosity that seems to be insatiable; therefore I don’t always bother to attempt the quench it. But, I’m getting pretty thirsty. My new endeavor… share your thirst.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Studio-Nomads/960737523947183

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Spurts. My life runs in them. Fast – slow, sad – happy, well – sick, rich – poor… rarely a modicum of consistency, rarely a sense of one within the other. I’m sure that this is diagnosable, but I’ve yet to seek that out. I would say however, that the older I get, the easier it is to blend them. When I am sad, it is easier to remember that sometimes I am happy. When I am poor, I realize that I’ve been rich. When things move too fast, I remember the moments when time stood still and I begged for speed. It is this blending, that to me, defines my maturity. Without elaboration, I’m pleased to report happiness. When colors fade and darkness comes, I plea that these moments fall not far behind…and not too far ahead.

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I believed that Santa himself made The Sears & Roebucks Christmas catalog and that he filled its pages with the stock from his workshop.

Although my young mind would run wild with want, we were not permitted to be greedy. We were instructed to look through the catalog and make a list of 10 or 15 things, and than Santa would choose a gift from our list, one that best suited our behavior for the year. I flipped from shoes to coats, to toys, to dresses, and back and fourth again. Did I really want this new flying saucer that could rip down the hillside, or would this amazing easy-bake oven impress all of my friends and make me the queen of second grade?

And, what if Santa picked something more in line with my disrespectful tone to my Mother, like white cotton underwear, or new church shoes? The pressure was on, and I crafted my list, compensating for my dirty deeds. If Santa wasn’t watching ALL the time, I should be able to eek out the polyester pants with the butterfly prints. They could double for a casual Sunday school outing, and make me feel like one of Charlie’s Angels all at the same time.

But then I saw the coveralls! They were navy blue with belled bottoms and a vibrantly colored choo-choo train embroidered right across the bib. Immediately I could see myself dancing around the Christmas tree in them. My desire for them was extreme. I put them at the top of my list and added a personal note to Santa, describing the unique beauty of these coveralls, and complimenting his elves for making a garment of such splendor.

Christmas morning came, and as I opened up my new church shoes and white cotton underwear, devastation began to set it. Hope slowly fell away as the last small box lost it fancy paper. I was unworthy of such beauty, I sadly accepted.

“Who is this one for,” my brother said, as he lifted the unmarked box from the back of the tree. “Oh, I think that’s Kelly’s, Santa must have forgotten to label it”, mom said.

Hope renewed, anticipation splitting me at the seams as I ripped open the package to expose the embroidered bib, thick with texture and ripe with color, a train symbolizing all of the unknown adventures I was sure to find in my travels through life. I stripped to my skivvies, unembarrassed by my tears of joy, leaped into my coveralls, and danced in glee around the living room in my new hip outfit.

I eventually outgrew my coveralls, but my love of color, texture, and adventure has endured. Their presence, or lack thereof, still dictates my dance steps and dominates my wish list.

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Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Giving Tuesday, … introducing INDULGE IN ART EVERYDAY!

You all know my passion for ART, not just for the process of creating my own work, but for the benefits ART has on young minds and old spirits alike. It’s a motivator, a communicator, a healer. Life without it would be bleak.

Choosing to follow a career in the arts is a bold move, but for many of us, there was never really any choice. Creating something that represents our experience with the world, and putting it out there for others to see, hopefully, appreciate, and ultimately purchase, takes a lot of chutzpah.

I live in an area rich in artistic history. The work of the painters before me holds great value here. Those that supported them and invested in their work while they were alive were pivotal in sustaining their ability to create. Investors have had the privilege of passing that work from generation to generation.

Be PIVOTAL today! Follow an old tradition. Start a new collection. Indulge yourself. Invest in the artisans you love. If I happen to be one of them, that’s cool too!

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I’m taking a class. Its called “Tales Told in Winter” and it’s unraveling me, in all the right ways. I’m writing, fiercely, and loving it. Each week we are given multiple topics and just a few minutes to compose a short story about each of them. We are doing a group performance on December 10th at The Bucks County Playhouse. Come if you want to hear some ‘tales told in winter”. This one is about the first time i realized that I had hurt someones feelings. I have no art to accompany it, but so it goes…

Go Ask Billy

“Go ask Billy if he likes Elizabeth” they giddily directed me. I was chosen as the messenger. I had a purpose, a job to do. The idea of young love was a new concept for our group of 8 year old friends, but it was exciting and we felt grown up just circling the subject. I was excited by the assignment. I would be the mover and shaker, making things happen. The high powered second grade executive dictating the romantic playing field of our catholic school playground.

Anticipating success, I happily hopped across the playground to find Billy draped over the monkey bars with his pals. They were laughing at something. “Hi Billy, I’m here to tell you that Elizabeth likes you and that you should be her boyfriend” I blurted. Billy’s nose crunched up and he made a terrible ick face. His friends howled and I froze in my delivery. I had not anticipated this kind of response. He was supposed to like her too. That’s the way it would work. I was meant to return with words of love. What was I suppose to do with this? Surely I couldn’t return with this kind of news. Elizabeth would be crushed, and she was my friend.

I told Billy he was a donkey butt and dumb for not liking my friend, and headed back to the merry-go-round. I was not going to hurt my friend. I would make her happy, because donkey buts shouldn’t have the power to make us sad, I thought. “Billy likes you too Elizabeth”, I said. Elizabeth beamed. Yes, I had done the right thing! All better. She’s happy. Let’s go play. “I’m going to talk to him”, she said. Wait…what…noooo….don’t do that. Why do you want to do that? You like him, he likes you. Done.

The reality and gravity of my lie hit me like a brick. Happiness and comfort created by illusion is not a solid plan, even on a playground. “Oh Elizabeth, don’t go talk to him. Be secret friends” I pleaded, digging my hole deeper. Eventually I admitted my deception and Elizabeth fled the playground in tears, my good intentions resulting in chaos.

If you seek the truth, ask your own questions, because the false love of a donkey butt, no matter how sweet, inevitably smells bad.

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