Drafting a New Collage

I've had an idea for this collage for awhile, but have been too busy to start it. In fact, it's been awhile since I started a new collage of any sort. Being home sick, but feeling slightly better, I had the opportunity this evening to start working on this one. It is far from finished, just the beginning -- well, maybe a little more than that. I started to add details such as the pug's shoes and ballet slippers. I wanted this piece to feel festive, joyful, spontaneous and also a little romantic. It also seems to me a bit old-fashioned. Some of the dogs remind me of the romantic lovers you see coming back after World War II and kissing in the streets. I'm trying something new here as well, adding the computer-drawn pugs from my New Year's sketch to the photographic elements. I think it really works here.

Funny, how often I have run into the idea of dogs dancing lately. My friend, Jon Katz, wrote a wonderful book of short stories called Dancing Dogs and during one of the give-a-ways I ran recently a woman told me all about the dancing work she does with her dogs. I originally started my sketch of the celebrating New Year's pugs as fighting dogs, but they looked to celebratory to me so I transformed them into dancers. The Akita in this collage is my brother John's dog. I remember snapping the picture of her standing on her rear legs and resting her arms on his and thinking they looked like they were dancing. Then, I began to realize just how many pictures I had with other dogs who also seemed to be striking a pose, such as the poodle I snapped out on a "doggie spa day."

I added the children (both my niece Catherine, actually) because at the heart I think my work is always a commentary on the relationship and interplay between children and animals, only here the dogs take center stage. I love how "the girl" in the red is reaching out to twirl the ball, just as if she belonged there. I have more I want to do with this piece, but I thought I'd share it as it progresses.

Waffles in the Snow

It's cold in Vermont today and my little pugs don't much like to get their toes frozen. Alfie, my fawn, has a wonderful double coat, but poor little Waffles doesn't have much fur at all. She is lean and sleek like a little black seal. She loves to sit by the stove and roast away until she gets so hot I worry she is cooking. Still, even in the cold it's necessary for the pugs to go outside and do their duty. To entice them in this cold weather, I often throw a treat or two and while both pugs go crazy foraging through the snow, Waffles has turned it into an arctic sport -- snow fishing. She nose dives into the nearest powder and comes back up only when she has claimed her treat or is in desperate need of air. In spite of the fact that she hates the cold, she is a true athlete in pursuit of her goal. I practically have to drag her in as she plants her face again and again in the cold stuff. She usually comes in with a frozen little face of flakes. Even though I am ill and not in the best of moods of late, she brings a smile to my face. I love her perseverance. She is a trooper and if she can be, so can I.

Roots

 

I was born a brunette. Actually, that’s not true. I was born bald and remained that way until I was three-years-old. Then, my mother claims, my hair grew in light. I was a toe-head, but by the time I was in second grade my hair was brown and remained that way through college. It was long and brown until I was 14 when my grandmother took me to get it cut and my first perm. After that I kept it short or curly or wavy until I graduated from college.

Again, that’s not entirely true. Just before going off to college my mom and I decided it would be exciting for me to try life as a blond, so we bought some at home hair stripper and dye. We tried the stripper, which did exactly what its name implied, stripped my hair of color and then we applied the color, summer blonde, which my mom had used in the past. It turned my hair a lovely, damaged, straw-broom orange, so we re-dyed it brown, but it was so damaged that we had to cut a lot of it off and it wouldn’t’ really style well, so I went off to start my freshman year shorn.

When I graduated college, I decided to get my hair frosted blonde. My mother, a natural blonde, had always been hailed for her beauty and I think I wanted to look like her. She also had short hair at the time, so I chose to cut mine as well. I found a pic of a short-feathered cut  a la Melanie Griffith when she was married to Don Johnson the second time around. I liked it and thus started my hair-dyeing journey.

Hair has always been an issue in my family. Dad never wanted Mom to cut her long hair, she didn’t listen, and I think I thus, saw controlling one’s hair as a sign of independence. I also found I simply liked change.  When my brother started dating his wife, Becky, she was in school to become a hairdresser and I was her happy guinea pug. She took my hair from blonde to plum to a black disaster and back to red again. I have thus been practically every color imaginable over the last twenty years and sometimes more than one color at once. When my niece Catherine would draw pictures of her family in school, she would often color my stick figure representation with rainbow colored hair.

I say I’ve been every color imaginable, but in reality I’ve been practically every color but brown. I tried to dye it back once or twice, but always hated it so much that it took only an hour or two before I went out and added some streaks or re-dyed it a different color all together.

The other day after Christmas I decided to go back to my roots, so to speak. I went to the hairdresser and asked her to dye my hair mocha with blonde tips. Actually, I think my color now is darker than my natural color, but not by much and who can really tell, because dyed hair, no matter how well done. is always more one-dimensional than natural, and, it has been years since I saw my real hair, but for now at least I’m a brunette again.

I’m not entirely sure I feel like me yet. For years I wore my hair a cherry red color that became almost signature and recently, I managed to stop dying my hair for enough years to grow it long and blonde, which I absolutely loved and felt right at home. But the itch to change came back and I cut it shorter and red, then cut it again so that I can grow it out and now, well, now its brown. As I was dyeing it, I read an article that says that men are more likely to pick up an object dropped by a blonde woman in a tight white tee shirt than a brunette, so maybe I made a big mistake, but so be it.

I’m sure there’s all sorts of psychological reasons besides those already mentioned for my hair-changing obsession, but this is what I know for sure. It’s fun, it’s an adventure and while it offers some surprise, it’s entirely within my control. It’s a way to shake things up, become a different person without a permanent commitment – it grows back, you can color it again. It’s cheaper than buying a ticket to Paris or moving to New York.  It’s a way to explore different facets of myself. It’s anything, but boring.

So in a way, getting back to my roots is a way of being a whole new me. And, I just noticed it’s even trendier than I first thought. My new color, dark brown with blonde tips, matches my dog. Waffles, like her father Puddlegum, has fawn undertones to her black coat. If you look close at her shoulders and rump, the tips of her dark fur look frosted blonde. We’ll look so cute together while out on the town, I’m sure the right pug-loving guy will stop to help us if we drop something on the sidewalk…

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

Happy New Year from Pugs and Pics!

Vader's Tree

I admit it, I've been pretty wiped out lately. I love Christmas, but with Christmas cards, parties, deadlines, scrapbooks, etc. etc. I seem to find myself sick by season's end. It has been hard to keep up with the blog. Almost all the writers I know define themselves as writers by saying they have to write. Problem is that's all I've been doing -- writing Christmas letters, writing articles, writing scrapbook captions, by the time I get to the blog I have a serious case of writer's block. Sometimes I know what I want to write about but my head is spinning and with this cold, it's just been plain stuffy. Plus, try writing something creative after you've worked all day mapping out an article on appraisers. So, I've posted Christmas cards and photos, waiting for my battery to recharge.

I've found sometimes that the best way to write an article that I am struggling with is to try doing something else. So, to re-energize I've been playing with my new Lensbaby lens. Friday, before the sore throat got too bad, I went outside and played in the snow with my nephew and his girlfriend taking pictures. I looked up at the tree in the front yard and saw this nest. I've been seeing a lot of nests this season and have even written about it here. Perhaps it's because the trees have been bare so long without snow, though there is plenty of snow now. I love nests. If you look at them closely, you can see the resourcefulness of their makers -- I have seen some garnished with plastic shopping bags and caution tape. The birds that make them are survivors, creating homes from sticks and straw, garbage and dirt. They speak of comfort, home, nurturing, and hard work.

This nest was in Vader's tree, the tree I look him to sit under before he died. Back then, in June, it was leafy and green, a wonderful canopy of life above our heads. The sun shone through the leaves, white, dazzling, beautiful. This tree is bare, the sun hidden behind the cold, blue winter sky. But there in what appears to be a blustery winter scene sits this nest, a testament to life. And, despite the cold and the stress, the deadlines and the writer's block, I rise up to embrace it.

Photo of Splish and Dumble

Here is one of the photos that Sara sent of Splish Splash and Dumbledore or Ginny and Otis as they are now called. I like their new names, what they lack in color they make up for in warmth. You can't tell they were given in love. I have written often about the names of the pugs--both the names we give them and the ones they receive. They are the thread that binds us to them, their old names to us, their new names to their new owners,  and somehow These people to us as well. It is like an umbilical chord that though cut is never severed.

Why is this important? I can't quite put my finger on it yet, it has something to do with stewardship and responsibility, a lifelong promise that they were sent out into the world with love, a contract that the new owners promise they will keep.  These dogs  may not care which name they answer to, but they care how they are treated. The names are our seal and our promise, because I believe it matters somehow, our relationship with these creatures with whom we share our homes and hearts. it matters even after they are gone.

Splish Splash and Dumbledore

If we are lucky, the Christmas letter I send out for my friend Joan outlining the comings and goings at Pugdom each year, goes out into the world and starts yielding a response. The owners of our Pugdom pups start sending back their own cards, letting us know how the pugs have grown and changed; many send pictures. The responses started coming in yesterday. The first was from Sara, who owns two "Pugdom Pugs" -- Dumbledore and Splish Splash. Dumbledore was one of the magician litter, which also comprised Gandalf, Copperfield, Merlin and Hocus Pocus. Splish Splash was part of our "Champagne" litter -- although in the end the names had little to do with the beverage -- instead we had Reepicheep, Suteki, Sangria and Splish.  Sara took in Dumbledore first and years later inherited Splish Splash from her mother. Both have been renamed. Dumble is now Otis and Splish, Ginny, somewhere along the way she lost an eye.

Sara sent a handful of photographs of the two dogs together and alone. The names on the backs alternated between their given names and the names she chose. She says Dumbledore is 10, graying on the chin and still has the nice trot just like his brother Gandalf. Splish or Ginny appears to be his constant companion.

Each year, I also find many of my cards returned unopened in the mailbox. As time passes, people move and we lose track of them and the dogs we loved. It is nice when we receive the pictures back instead.

For Christmas I received a new Sensu artist brush stylus. I purchased a Nomad artist brush stylus for my sister-in-law. I used the new stylus to create the above sketch and really liked the way it felt and looked like a real brush.

It's Hard to Say Goodbye...

Christmas may be over, but it lingers in the air. Families gather and disperse, celebrate and return to their ordinary lives. My own family has convened to open presents three times over the last three days. A thick winter snow now falls to the ground. It looks and feels like Christmas. I am in no hurry to return to work. I want to snuggle under the blanket of snow, listen to the soft snores of my two pugs, relish the remaining moments of the year's final embrace. It is not easy to say goodbye to Christmas, we won't meet again until next year.

And, finally this is our Christmas Card...

 

Merry Christmas to you all. Thank you for all the support and for following the blog. Peace be with you and may joy and happiness be yours.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

I attended a Christmas tree lighting ceremony at a friend's house in Warren, Vt. tonight and risked life and limb in doing so. In all the years I have been traveling to visit my friend Joan, up near the Sugarbush ski area, I have never had trouble making it up her road, but tonight I skid all over the place, barely making it to the top. Joan, practically lives in Heaven.

After I recovered and we helped dig another friend out of the snow, Joan and I set off in her 4-wheel drive Tracker down the road to the Christmas tree lighting. The  passenger side of the Tracker is presently without a seatbelt and I never travel without a seatbelt but since we were only going a short distance, I conceded. Driving slowly down the hill, in 4-Wheel drive, Joan's vehicle suddenly spun out of control and we did a complete turn down the hill ended up in a ditch facing uphill. While we were spinning and I feared we would crash I matter-of-factly announced "I'm not wearing a seatbelt." We had to get a bunch of guys and a tractor to get us out.

We walked to our friend's house, had food and  hot wine and watched the tree lighting, which was admittedly peaceful. I still feared making it back to Joan's and then over the icy roads to my house, but I survived. Now off to bed, to sleep, to dream.