Writing Prompt: Authenticity

Authenticity: Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as “true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character.” Yesterday, at the self-portrait workshop, our workshop leader asked us if anytime during the process of creating our self-portrait projects we had experienced authenticity. Four out of approximately 13 of us said we had. The leader then asked us what it felt like.

I wanted to laugh. Don’t get me wrong, I respect this workshop leader and as a teacher I understand what she was doing, but it seems so strange that if authenticity means being true to one’s own personality, it is so hard to find.

We hear the word all the time – we need to strive for authenticity in our writing, in our art, in our lives, but if it’s just being true to who I am, then once again I question why do I have to strive so hard for it?

The workshop leader looked at my 16 photos and remarked at the difference between the ones that were staged and the ones that were spontaneous. Again, I knew what she was talking about, but in actuality all the pictures were in essence “staged,” designed to recreate the look, feel, gestures or setting of my childhood shots. Some just looked more spontaneous because of the way I shot them and the funny thing was some of the “staged” ones felt more like me.  Take for instance, the adult shot in “Then and Now.” You can see the remote in my hand; I’m looking directly in the camera. It’s obvious I am taking the shot. Still, as I wrote in that blog post, I know this person. She is the woman that teaches my memoir class, goes out on interviews, engineered my self-portrait project. She goes to work everyday and she is me. Inside her is the little girl in the blog post last night – the vulnerable self. Which one is more me? Which is the authentic self?

It seems many people identify authenticity with vulnerability. They applaud us when we reveal these aspects of ourselves as being honest, but aren’t both parts me – to be authentic don’t I need to acknowledge both? And, if sometimes we don a mask or tell a lie to get by isn’t that a part of who we are as well? In that case what does it mean to be authentic – do we step up to the plate and admit we’re frauds? I don’t mean to be rhetorical here. I’m really struggling with this whole concept. And, then I think it may not be authenticity I’m troubled by. I think what may lie at the root of this all is the fact that a part of me identifies vulnerability with weakness or at the very least the potential for being hurt and thus, I have spent a great deal of energy making sure I am protected from such feelings. The self I wear on a daily basis, the self I want to identify with because I see her as strong, has become disconnected from this other part as I try to protect myself from potential harm. I think a lot of people feel this way and thus, we say we are authentic when we connect with this inner, hidden self. And, so we ask what that feels like – this becoming whole, connected, one. And, I have a feeling that when it happens, it doesn’t feel like a revelation or an epiphany, it feels normal. You see yourself in your vulnerability and your strength and just like looking in a mirror or pictures of yourself as a child and as an adult, you smile, nod and say, “Oh, there I am!” And, it feels good.

Writing Prompt: When do you feel the most authentic? What did it feel like? : )

Self-Portrait #8: Womanhood

See the little girl in this picture – she’s me. She’s happy, smiling, dressed in a cute little dress, tights and shoes, and she’s a little bit nervous and self-protective. Years have passed, but she’s still inside me. I carry her with me and as composed as I may or may not be on the outside, she is always there. I know this little girl, I identify with her.

Today, I attended the second half of the Self-Portraiture workshop for which I created the photos I’ve been sharing on the blog. We had eight minutes to present our projects and discuss them. My dialogue between my adult and child selves met with good response. The workshop leader asked me if I had any trouble connecting with my child self. I didn’t. In many ways it is easier for me to connect with the child than the adult. Maybe it’s because I know that the little girl standing nervously on the side of her foot, arms wrapped around her is still a big part of who I am.

The big surprise of this portraiture project and of this blog has been coming to terms with the woman I am now. I have written about my ambivalence toward my body and perhaps with that comes a disconnection to other parts of my self, primarily to seeing myself fully as a woman and not solely as this little girl. It surprised me when readers started commenting on my strong portrayal of women on the blog and counted me among them. It surprised me more when I realized it was true. Another reader commented on the feminist dialogue occurring here and again I was taken aback and saw that it was true.

Among the things I have written about and draw me to them are the ideas of paradox and dichotomy – finding strength in weakness, the woman in the little girl, the girl in the woman, the strength in both.

Another surprise with this project has been viewing the adult shots and seeing aspects of myself I didn’t know existed. Many of the photos I look at and recognize myself, but some of them I saw and said, “Is that me? Do I really look like that? Can I really look like that?” Some of them pleasantly surprised me.

The adult shot below is one of them. At the end of today’s discussion, a number of people commented on the sensuality of this picture, one saying it looked like I was getting ready to dance at a Moroccan dance club. I told them that this was one of the pictures I included because I liked the way I looked, but that it was not a version of myself that I am used to seeing. But perhaps it can be. Perhaps I am learning to drop my guard and embrace new aspects of myself. Perhaps that’s what it means to grow and be a woman.

Self-Portrait #7: Environment

To me these two photographs are as much about my environment as they are about me. Life was simpler in our Richmond, Vt. home where I lived until I was nine years old. Our house was smaller and so was our family. My younger two siblings would not be born until we moved to Bethel.  My parents built a kit home in Richmond, where Mom would let me color on the walls for entertainment and then would repaint over them when she saw fit. My brother and I entertained each other because there were not too many other kids around. The T.V. was my salvation providing endless hours of amusement. I would soak in what I saw there and continue the stories during playtime so that I became a captain on the Starship Enterprise, Isis, or a member of Josie and the Pussycats. I also loved the consistency of television – weekly shows, where characters could be counted on to act in predictable ways. They became steady friends. I would repeat the story lines to my grandmother and she would play with me for hours recreating them. I know nowadays people worry about children watching too much television, but it opened doorways of imagination for me and I still love it.

We didn’t have as much money or as many members in the family when we lived in Richmond, so the house was filled with less. This picture from my childhood captures me in these surroundings. You can see the walls are bare, the T.V. representative of the seventies as is my orange jumpsuit. My brother Johnny is the toddler on the floor. I don’t remember my outfit or that expression. I can’t tell what my child self might have been thinking. I like that she looks confident as if she owns the room.

The adult photograph shows my living room today, and no surprise the T.V. takes center stage. The room is larger. Art adorns the walls. My constant companion today is my pug Alfie. My eyes are the same as the little girls, my haircut similar. I am more familiar with my expression here. I can, however, see that girl turning into me, there is a similarity in our stance; the way we look into the camera. I am less certain here than she is; she is less encumbered. As the photographer in the second picture I need to ensure I get the shot right. My younger self seems to be staring at whoever is taking her picture with the flair of a celebrity asking, did you get that? It’s almost as if she walked out of range and 40 years into the future finding the room transformed. She would like that notion; it’s something that might have happened on the Enterprise.

My Body, Myself

Here’s one lesson I wish I had learned in childhood – be kinder to your body. I never had much use for mine, below my head that is. Probably because I was always a chunky child, I learned early on to be embarrassed by my body. Also, it didn’t do all the things I wished it would.

When my mother took me on a class trip roller skating, she and I spent the whole time on the floor while the rest of the class and their parents did loops around us. On the playground I was hopeless at Dodge Ball and Duck, Duck, Goose – so frightened of making a fool of myself that I barely participated. I would learn to scratch my knees to draw blood so that I could go to the nurse’s office and not have too participate in the softball games. In fourth grade, I couldn’t master the somersaults and cartwheels in the gymnastics class and instead got to be a clown at a school-wide exhibition – which, I would like to inform the gym teachers now does little for a young girl’s self esteem.

Since my body caused me shame and I couldn’t get rid of it, I learned to ignore it. My brain got all the accolades. I was good at schoolwork. So, although I yo-yoed in weight over the years – at one time, I now realize, I bordered on an eating disorder as I starved myself to be thin – I pretty much didn’t give my body any thought.

As I wrote last week, doing this self-portrait project, I look back on my childhood self and wonder why I wasn’t happier with the body I had. Sure my thighs were chubby and I wasn’t reed thin, but you can see I might have grown out of the baby weight if I hadn’t started to feel so badly about myself that I would eat as consolation. But, I look back and even at its worst, my body was nowhere near as horrible as I imagined. Now like all those who stare age in the face, I really wish I had appreciated it more.

I began, however, to pay attention to my body more, to feel more connected to my skin, a few years ago when I decided to get my first tattoo. I now have four. Unlike some people who find tattoos cheap or gaudy, I love the way they look, and like dyeing my hair, I think they offer me yet another artistic and creative outlet, a way to shape myself. My first tattoo was a “tramp stamp” on the lower back. Although, the term is certainly deragoratory, I found it somewhat liberating, figuring I could let a little tramp come out given my goodie-two-shoes existence. It is of a dog and cat with the Hebrew words “living soul” beneath it, referring to a passage in the book of Genesis. Some Biblical scholars feel that the word “soul” in the first chapter of Genesis – “nephesh” was translated to read “soul” when referring to “man” and “creature” when referring to animals, but that in the original Hebrew it was actually the same word for both. I, who value, the uniqueness of my pets, believe they do have souls  and so I chose to tattoo the phrase and the animals on my lower back. I chose a brown henna colored ink, similar to the tattoo on my wrist, which reads “Resisto Ergo Sum” –I resist therefore I am (a paraphrasing of Descartes famous declaration)– it refers to resisting all the bad stuff that life piles on you over time, such as the belief that your body is shameful or embarrassing, for instance.

Something happened as soon as I got that first tattoo, I felt connected to my body in a way I never had before. I felt grounded. My head realized that it was attached to something and I felt proud as if I had reclaimed a lost part of myself. When my first pug, Buffy, died I tattooed her image on my right shoulder with the words “True Love” on a ribbon wound around her. The final tattoo in my quartet is a peace symbol, appropriately received in Woodstock, NY. I got this one done on the fly, a quick whim as I drove out of town. I found it all the more liberating, congratulating myself on my impulsiveness.

People comment all the time asking aren’t I going to regret these tattoos when I get old and I don’t understand the question. "You’ll be all wrinkly," they say. And, I figure I’ll be that way with or without the tattoo. I think they’re underlying meaning is that tattoos belong on the young, but like a medal or badge of courage I will wear mine on my wrinkly hide and know I lived. My body will bear the marks of my hand and I will be proud to claim them and it as my own.

Addendum:

The childhood picture that inspired this post is of my brother and me in our bathroom in Richmond, Vt. I cropped the photo of my brother for privacy reasons. When we were little, like many siblings we would bathe together. Once, when we were nine and seven and had just moved to Bethel, my brother had a friend over to the house and he found a photo of the two of us in the tub. I was so embarrassed by the picture that I tried to take it away and when he would not relinquish it, I wrapped my hands around his throat and began choking him. Of course, my mother intervened and rescued him before any harm was done, but I can still remember my fury at being caught naked in the picture.

The adult shot is of me after a shower today. You can see the tattoo of Buffy on my shoulder. It was important to me when embarking on this project to take at least one photo that showcased my tattoos for the reasons given above. Also visible in this photo is my pink Turbie Twist towel. A couple of years ago, I purchased it as stocking stuffers for my mother. She was nowhere near as enchanted with it as I was and gave it back to me. I couldn’t live without them. They work better than a towel because they stay wrapped on the head with a small piece of elastic to secure them.  I guess, I’ll end now while I’m ahead. I may have just given you too much of a glimpse into my life with that endorsement.

Writing Prompt: Dreaming

If yesterday’s photo showed my confidence – me in control of my life, then tonight’s shows my vulnerability. It’s about admitting that even though my life is full of work, friends, and wonderful activity, I am lonely, still waiting for someone to share my life with on a daily basis, someone, that is, besides my two curly-tailed sidekicks. It’s not easy to admit that. I prefer the gal who looks the camera and the world in the eye, control in hand, and directs her destiny. But, truth be told, there are some things that have not yet yielded to my will (note the optimism there), some things that have yet to turn out the way I dreamed.

That’s me at five or six in my cornflower blue nightgown and mother’s wedding veil. I remember when this photos was taken. I felt so special wearing her headpiece. Funny, for some reason, this was readily available to me as a child while my grandmother had taken the accompanying bridal gown and stored it away – probably waiting until my own wedding -- until we discovered it a year ago. I would wear the headpiece and like many a little girl, dream that someday my prince would come. This photograph sits on my mom’s dresser where I see it often. Sometimes, it makes me smile. I remember that little girl as being happy. At that age, you don’t even know the whole world stretches before you. You live in the timeless age of childhood, where life exists in the moment and is played out in imagination. Sometimes I feel wistful, longing to have all those years between the two of us back, contemplating what I could do with them now. Sometimes I feel that’s what I need most – more time to find the life she expected.

I wonder if that little girl could see me if she would blame me for things not turning out as she had dreamed. I wonder if a part of me blames her for not stepping out in the right direction.

I look at the photo of me now and know that it is about more than waiting for a prince. It is about all the unfulfilled hopes we keep inside. It is about the part of ourselves that remains veiled and hidden, because as happy as we are, as strong, there is always a little girl inside. So I move forward for the both of us, making the best of each moment and filling it with all the life I can, not to keep loneliness at bay, but as an act of faith.

In truth, I’m still dreaming.

Writing Prompt: Write about a childhood dream? Did it come true? Do you know why or why not? Do you wish it had?

Me: Then and Now

Of all the pictures of me as a child this one is my favorite. I can’t really verbalize why. When my father saw it tonight he said, “This is just you.” And, he’s right. If I needed a picture that captured me as a child this would have been it. This is what I envision when I picture myself as a little girl. I was probably seven in this picture. It was taken in Richmond, Vt. in my grandmother’s backyard, which adjoined our own. This is the pasture and mountains I would look out on from my swing set. It captures not only the view of my childhood, but also how I spent much of my time – alone in my imagination, overlooking this lawn. I appear happy and slightly puzzled in this photo, but I know I was also comfortable up on my perch.

I love it when you juxtapose this shot with the adult one. Of all the ones I’ve taken for this project, I think these two show the greatest similarities. I still look the same 38 years later, right down to the haircut. How can that be? How can I have the exact same haircut as my seven-year-old self? Even my body shape is relatively the same and I still find myself curling up in this same position. I’m a little less confused looking in the second shot. Here, I stare at the camera more directly. I took several similar shots, but loved that this one shows the camera remote. To me it illustrates that I am the one controlling this shot, controlling my future. It is the same girl with a little bit more experience. Sometimes, you look back at pictures of yourself when you were younger and you wonder who was that girl? Sometimes you look back with embarrassment or longing. When I look at these two pictures, it is easy for me to say I know that girl and she is me!

What's in a Name (of a Blog that is)?

I received a great comment from a reader today who wondered about the name Pugs and Pics. When first introduced, this reader was an uncertain about the site, worried that it would be devoted to a bunch of silly dog photos, but stuck around and has become a fan. The same reader wondered if the site might be better served by another name, asking if it had grown beyond its original intent.

I say this is a great comment because this reader is engaged and had some valid points. It’s tough to choose a name for a site, and once you do, you’re kind of stuck – you’ve likely paid for a URL and built up a following, so experts warn choose carefully. A lot of writers decide to go by their name when they can. I couldn’t get the URL to my full name, so I originally was going to have a web site foe my work called www.kjgifford.com. You can still reach the writing portion of my blog from this URL.

I tried for years to get that web site off the ground and in the meantime I developed a love of photography, initially sparked by taking pictures of my own as well as my friend Joan’s pugs. When it comes to any form of art whether it is writing, photography or painting, it’s best to pursue subjects you feel passionate about. There is a different type of energy surrounding things you love. My photography teacher noticed this in my work early on and encouraged me to continue taking pictures of my pugs and other dogs. I started a Facebook site devoted to my photography www.facebook.com/kjgiffordphotography and subsequently a blog on Posterous and Blogger. When it came time to start these blogs, I wanted to attract people who would be interested in my photography, which in this case would be other pug people, hence the name Pugs and Pics.

I look at my friends in the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project and note the name of their sites. John Greenwood chose Raining Iguanas, an unique and interesting name that has to do with awakening, a subject to which most of his writing is devoted. Rachel Barlow chose Picking My Battles and she often writes about challenges in being a mother, a wife, a writer. She picks her subjects and battles with care. Jon Katz, the leader of our group, has a very successful blog entitled Bedlam Farm and you guessed it, he writes about life on his farm with his wife and animals. And, yes, on my site I write about pugs and pics. But, as the aforementioned reader noted, it has become about so much more. Jon calls his blog a living memoir and mine has certain become one. I am only beginning to understand all that this site is about. I learn through the writing.

I have been a freelance writer for 20 years now, writing magazine articles for a variety of regional publications, and a memoir-writing instructor for 11. When I joined the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project, I decided it was time to get serious about my own writing, which initially had a lot to do with pugs. It still does. It is my hope to turn some of the ideas found in these pages into a book one day. I’d really like to write more about my experiences at Pugdom, my friend Joan’s house and yes, these involve a lot of talk about pugs. The things I have learned there, however, go beyond that and are themes that are universal as well as personal. What do we do when we find ourselves alone in life? When things get tough? I met Joan after my family had been through a really challenging ordeal (a story for another time). I was single when most of my friends were married and starting families and I was lonely, looking for a dog of my own. I came from a small town, hadn’t traveled much and then I met this woman, who had a houseful of pugs and amazing stories to tell and had traveled the world a couple of times over. Except for her dogs and a handful of friends, she was alone, too. Her husband had died the year before I met her. An older woman with a childlike spirit, Joan chooses to live with all these pugs a top a lonely mountain in Warren, Vt. Her life can be chaotic and challenging at times, but it is never dull and she lives it her way. I admire that about her. Since I met her, I too have traveled to places I never thought I would have gone. I’m not sure I ever thought I would have traveled much at all before meeting her and I have learned a lot about what it means to be strong and I have learned my own limitations. I hope I will not find myself alone when I am her age, but for now in spite of the circle of friends and family, I am essentially on my own and sometimes that can be lonely. The pugs, both mine and the pack at her house help fill the void. I look at Joan and at other women in my life and I learn from them.

These are things I’ve tried to share in these pages. Each of us has his or her own unique way of looking at the universe and I’ve tried to share mine as well. It is often easy to judge what is best for a person – a woman of Joan’s age shouldn’t be living alone or she shouldn’t have so many pugs, a person my age should be on their own by now. She should have a home, a family. I think it is important not to judge to let people carry what they must, to help them when you can and to try to understand their point of view, even if you disagree. I think this is how we learn and grow. I also think this is a responsibility we have when we befriend someone – the responsibility to let them be who they are. I think we have responsibilities to animals, too, especially when you breed them or rescue them and claim them as your own. There is an issue of stewardship I wish to explore and how in living and loving these creatures we learn about ourselves. This is the book I would like to write someday and it all starts with pugs. But it is not limited to them. They are just the lens through which I began to see what I wanted to explore, they are my companions on this path to growth.

Pugs and Pics thus, seemed to serve this site well. When I decided to start blogging about theses subjects it made sense to use it, to attract those who might be interested in a woman with two pugs and her friendship with a breeder with dozens. Besides, I already had this name for my Posterous and Blogger sites, so my fans there carried over. My web site designer asked me if I thought I might still be blogging about pugs 12 years from now and the answer is who knows? But they will always be a part of my life. As I have written, I have a pug tattooed on my shoulder, another on my back, my license plate reads Puggies. I’ve been branding myself literally for a long time now and I don’t think I’ll ever completely leave the subject behind.

And, it’s not just pugs. I think there is something special about the dog/human bond, the animal/human bond for that matter. I think that animals and particularly dogs, which have infiltrated our hearts and lives so thoroughly, enrich us in unique ways. I think that anyone who starts to explore their life with dogs in pictures and in writing soon find that they are exploring these subjects; even if it begins with a bunch of funny dog photos. I know this is certainly the case for most of the dog blogs I love best.

In the months since I’ve had the site, it is true that my writing is changing to include my photography, art, and personal stories from other areas of my life and I hope it continues to evolve even more. The name Pugs and Pics may not be as broad as it could be, but hopefully more people like this reader will discover it and stick around long enough to see that it can be. My pugs and my photography were the starting point for this journey and I am following them where they lead. They have taught me to see my life in a new way and I hope that this blog is allowing readers a glimpse through this lens and giving them a new perspective – something all good art and writing should do.

A special thank you to my reader for inspiring this post and for sticking around and please feel free to comment. One of the things I love about blogging is this dialogue, which fosters growth.

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait 3: Doll

I bet this doll is familiar to a lot of little girls who grew up in the seventies. This is my Chrissy doll. She had hair that could grow and be made short again and along with Mrs. Beasley, my Dawn dolls and my Malibu Barbies, she was a favorite of mine. I loved to play dolls and my grandmother would play them with me for hours. Whenever my mother played she would speak with a southern accent that would drive me crazy. I no longer play with dolls unless one of my nieces is around, but I still have several including the one in the picture below.

I had this doll specially made for me. Her name is Mira and if you look closely her eyes are in the shape of pug face's. Her eyes are designed from a picture of my pug Mira, who died when she was only a year-and-a-half old from an anaphylactic reaction to her distemper shot. She was the most joyful creature I have ever known, human or animal. She loved to watch television and listen to Clare de Lune. She would tilt her head and stare at my computer when I would play it on i-tunes. Vader would roll on his back and she would stand atop him and the two would gently tumble as Vader was already aging. She made everyone a dog lover and a pug lover, even when they were not.

This is one of my favorite pictures I have taken for the self-portrait assignment. It has a sense of vulnerability to it, that is reminiscent of childhood although it has a different feel. It is not childhood innocence that comes across in this adult shot, but vulnerability. The two are similar, but not the same.

Writing Prompt: In what ways do you show your vulnerability? Write about a time you were vulnerable.

Self-Portrait 2: Cowgirl

Here, I am on the Hoppity Horse.  I wrote about this morning. This was a common site in my childhood -- me decked out in a dress, always a dress, my cowboy hat and possibly my toy guns or Star Trek phasers, hopping along the perimeter of the lawn on my blue rubber hoppity horse. Usually I was pretending to be on a ride with the Barkley brothers of The Big Valley, the Cartwright brothers of Bonanza, or perhaps on a survey of an alien world with the crew of the Starship Enterprise. In any case, I was in my own little world and I seldom remember being as happy as that.  Not even years later when I had a real horse to ride.

The aspect of this photo that I wanted to take forward to my adult self-portrait was this aspect of fun and playfullness that I felt as a child.

The cowboy hat I'm wearing here is the same one I'm wearing in the collage for the header of this blog. In both instances, I donned the hat to show my playful side. Originally, I thought of snapping a picture of me sitting backward leaning on a chair in place of the hoppity horse, but in putting on my hat and playing with my i-phone I took this picture and liked it. I thought it said exactly what I wanted to convey -- I may be grown up now, but I still love to have fun and if I stumbled upon a hoppity horse today I might just jump on and hop along!

Self-Portrait 1: The Window

I began my self-portrait assignment yesterday with this picture of my brother Johnny and me looking out a window at our childhood home in Richmond, Vt. I chose this photo because it says a lot about us even though you can't see our faces. In those early years, before we moved to Bethel there were just the two of us. My other two brothers would not be born for years. We didn't have too many other friends as little kids and spent most of our time making up games together. We placed a blanket in our narrow hall, piled our stuffed animals on it and pretended we were on a raft floating down stream. We stared out at the blinking red airport tower at Christmas and thought it was Rudolph, on his way to deliver presents. We listened to the hum of a humidifier and spooked ourselves believing it was talking to us.

I remember being jealous when my little brother was born, but I had forgotten how much we did together as children and how much we were each other's world. When we grew older, in our college years, we were each other's best friends. I forgot that stretched back to these early years.

It's not surprising that I am looking out the window in this picture. The thing I remember most about my childhood in Richmond is the landscape. I was always looking out into the distance, roaming the landscape. We shared two acres of land with my maternal grandparents and I had a hoppity horse, a big rubber blue ball with a horses head, that I would bounce along the perimeter of the two full acres. I sat on my swing, pumping my legs to go higher and higher and staring out at the mountains and farm land in the distance. Our neighbor was a farmer and his field would smell of fresh manure. "Be careful of the cow plops," we would warn.

In recreating this scene today, I left out my brother. Logistically, it would have been hard to find the time to include him, but also he is not in my everyday world the way he was as a child. Like all three of my siblings, he does not live far away and I see him often, but we no longer share that daily bond. Today, it is mostly me. And, the pugs, but I chose not to include them in this photo. That will come later. I chose this hall window because it is one of the few in the house uncluttered by furniture. I chose a dress that I think complemented the retro feel of my childhood photo. This picture is less contemplative than the childhood shot. Maybe it's because I spend less time staring out at the world than I did as a child and more time in it. I liked the idea of throwing the curtains open and greeting the world with a smile.

I like how in the childhood shot you see my reflection, it's as if I'm looking out on the world and seeing who I may be. In the adult shot, you see the outside world. I'm no longer spending as much time pondering who I will be, I am being her.