I have been a struggling artist for many years. As I lay healing from a recent foot surgery I have been forced to be still and keep my feet elevated not allowing me to do the art I love. I have spent the time going through old journals and have come across some essays written by me when I was bit younger. I will be sharing them here with you until I can get back into the studio and post some tutorials of my techniques and mini projects here for you all to see.
Death of a Dignity
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?
Can I have that recipe?
How did you get to be so creative?
Last night I dreamt I danced at
Martha Stewart's funeral. A rather odd dream if left unexamined. Most people
have a love/hate relationship with their idols. I love Martha Stewart for her
interesting ideas, she celebrated the eclectic. She was the first person who
told me it didn't have to match. She took ordinary items and made them
extraordinary, a motto I have tried to live by. She made a habit trying to look
for the "good things" in life. She rescued treasures from tag sale.
She celebrated the obscure occasions; traveled to exotic locales. She was an
underdog who had made it big. Hers was the Cinderella story, from the one bedroom
apartment to several estates in prominent neighborhoods; from the one serving
the guests to being the host of her own lavish parties, having a staff that
would come to her beck and call. She had become a celebrity.
I loved all these things about
Martha and so much more. The joke at many of my gatherings would go something
like this "Wouldn't Martha be proud?" or "Look out Martha, Jon
David is in town!" or "Martha has nothing on ME!"
There was even a time I joined
her bandwagon. I sent her photos of my home, suggesting interesting out of the
way locations for her show, shared artistic ideas, even thought I might be
asked to come work for her. My bubble would soon be busted when a post card
arrived in the mail lacking all those things I admired about Martha. It was a
form postcard after all; not even a private letter. How tacky.
It was then that I began to
realize Martha was no longer a person but an enterprise. She had moved to the
house in the Hamptons, had her own daily television show, was a guest speaker
on the TODAY SHOW, and the author of successful books. She was even making
commercials for a major credit card company. Macy's had embraced her and she
was becoming a woman for the people. I knew then that the people in her inner
circle would always be a little better than me, and, I was never going to be
invited to be a guest of any of her parties or her television shows.
It was also about this time that
I stopped buying her magazines off the racks at the grocery stores. Martha and
I had begun our separation procedures. I no longer cared to hear her name
spoken in my presence, and my skin would churn if I heard one person say they
got the recipe from Living. I even
reveled in the parody of Martha found at the book stores, titled, "Is Martha Stewart Really Living?"
Years have come and gone. I once
again subscribed to her magazine, she comes directly to my home. In the years
that we were apart I began to realize there was a little of Martha Stewart in
me, in many of us, but mostly there was a lot of me in me. She may have inspired me but she was not the one who made
me. In her absence I even designed floral arrangements for several weddings,
had many successful swarajs, celebrated my creative side, and did it all
without a cast of thousands. I kept the essence of Martha, but, did it on a
shoestring budget.
I admire and respect Martha
Stewart; some days I even envy her. But, last night I dreamt I danced at her
funeral not because I am mentally disturbed. I danced in celebration of what
she stood for and what I had become. I danced for my freedom and her forced
exit. I danced to remember. I danced to forget. And as I danced I was reminded
that I too with her wealth, and along with her crews of thousand, I could also
create her over the top magical moments and huge productions.
But, as I lay my "floral
arrangement of the month" upon her graveside I was also reminded that I
can turn an apple into a tart, a book into a memory, a card into a collection,
a dreary day into a dawning, an eggplant into an exotic centerpiece, a fig into
a fabulous dessert, a gathering into gladness, a host into a friend, an icicle
into a winter montage, juice into sangria, kelp into a California roll, a
letter into a legacy, a map into a mural, an ordinary occasion into a
celebration, a pear can be poached and become breakfast, a quest an incredible
adventure, a raven may even become my pet, a stove is a gallery, a table a
conversation piece, a universe gets captured on my bathroom walls, a vase
becomes a vision, a wall is turned into a wonderland, a Xerox is easily
transformed into stationary, and, given the opportunity I could even find a few
interesting uses for a zebra.
So come and dance at Martha
Stewart's funeral. Dance not because you are disturbed, but, come dance because
each of us need to know who we can become if given the opportunity. But most of all come dance because it is time
to say goodbye to all those fears that entrap you and dream once again. So Good
Night my sweet Martha. Keep growing and learning because we love the way you
show us to look at our world through new eyes.
