Infamy

I dont think I want to be famous.  Maybe just a little bit.  But not truly.  Now, dont get me wrong, there are perks to being famous that I'd quite enjoy!  Money for one..this starvin' artist has a lot of mouths to feed!  But the downside is so icky, that I think I'd like to just be well known, as opposed to being truly famous. Think Kevin Kline instead of Brad Pitt.  Kevin gets his choice of very incredible roles, is truly well respected and acknowledged as a great actor.  I dont think I've ever heard anyone say they did not think he was any good.  But you never see him being chased down the street by paparazzi, never hear about drug addictions or flings..nothing like that. He has a life and he gets to pursue his craft and be successful at it.

Thats what I want. 

I decided this over the past several months due a long drawn out series of events, but it really hit home this last week when a good artist friend had a run in with a customer that really left her feeling down for an inordinate amount of time.  What is it about human beings that they so need to build people up and then tear them down later?   Its such a bizarre part of our human makeup.  Now, this friend happens to be one of the most famous fairy artists currently.  Her work is just about everywhere and she is highly respected and adored.  Its sometimes hard living in her shadow. But, hey, she's my buddy  and has been since the very start of my career so what can I do, but be proud and use her success as a motivation to keep pushing my own career?  And be there to hold the umbrella when the shit starts to fall, as it often does when one rises to her status.

Well, who knows, sometimes the nasty stuff that comes along is what pushes us out of our complacency and into the next level of our growth as artists.  Maybe thats what this will be for her. But it sure solidified that Kevin vs Brad philosophy I'd been batting about for a while.  Having come from a marriage where one of us was truly, deeply, internationally famous, not just in his field but in the WORLD, and then having a taste of fame of my own in my acting/modeling days, I've gotten a good solid glimpse into what it would be like.    I think I'd hate it.  I think I'd love it..and hate it.  The exhibitionist in me--and yes, I admit there is one--would revel in the attention.  The social misfit, shy Pisces in me would just die. 

Anyway, this is not a call for pity!  Dont feel sorry for us. Us artists who have made it.  We get to make a living doing what we love and it's by far more fun than not most of the time.    But for those of you out there who feel the need to rip it up now and again, remember, we are only human, and most of us are pretty sensitive.  Take it easy on us, eh?  The world is a small place and we hear fare more than you think, and too much negative energy on a sensitive psyche can stop the creative flow.  And then where would the Fairies play?

Mistaken Identity?

I teach riding lessons nowdays.  Its a funny thing that I never expected to do in my life ever, but I have this awfully expensive horse habit to support so I breed and teach to make my fix.   The art pays for my living, but the teaching and breeding pays for theirs. I like it though, and I sort of attract the eccentric, super kind, laid back clients that no self respecting diva-esque, nose in the air, blue-ribbon toting riding instructor would ever take on.  We call ourselves the Island of Misfit Toys and I think that about decribes us.  We have a lot of fun.

One day, one of my students comes to the barn and after her lesson tells me about her recent trip to a gift store in her neighborhood.  Whilst there she found this fabulous figurine she just bought of a Friesian rearing with a little fairy on his back. 

"You're kidding, right?" I asked her.

"No," she said, totally deadpan.  "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever been to my art website?  Ever?"

"Well, no, I haven't. I mean, I know you paint, but I have not gone to your site really."

At this point I had to conclude that she was serious.  "Terrie," I said, "Thats MY figurine!"  I went on to explain to her that the figurine she had purchased was in fact, based on one of my paintings, Dawn Dancing.

She was of course as dumbfounded as I at the coincidence.  She then proceeded to tell me how her daughter loved the one of a Gypsy with a dark haired fairy on his back. 

Now this truly was too much.  I pointed over my left shoulder to my Gypsy stallion, Finnvarra, in his paddock and said to her "Terrie, thats FINN!"   

Just goes to show you how small the world really is.

Sheep

I sheared my sheep today.  Well, no, I lie.  I sheered one of them today.  The other I sheared a few days ago.  Regardless, they are both done now for the season, thankfully.  

I must present quite a sight when I sheer my sheep. I have seen the movies, probably very Hollywood fake, where there are scenes of old cow(sheep)boys sheering sheep. Dozens, hundreds in a day.  It looks so easy.  They get the entire fleece off in one piece and in about 2 minutes. 

Me, on the other hand, it takes about 2 hours for one sheep, there is wooly bits scattered all over the barn by the time I am done, and I am covered head to toe in lanolin with a completely comatose sheep lying at my feet in shock.  Picture it, 40 year old suburban mom and fairy artist, sitting astride a 70 pound sheep  hoping its legs will give out so she can get it down to the ground.  Once they are down, I have discovered in the three years I have had to do this, they just give up and then it's relatively easy to sheer them.  Much less stress on them too since they kinda just check out.  I have a theorey that it's Mother Nature's way of being kind to prey animals.  Once they have been brought down by a hunter, their minds just ..wander away somehere. I hope it's a nice green field full of daisies and sweet little female sheep.  Anyway, so here's me, sitting on this sheep, waiting for his knees to buckle cuz I cant get him down any other way.  For mini sheep they are surprisingly strong.  Then as he goes, I literally fling myself amongst the sheep poop and dirt ( sheep poop a lot, little round balls, like deer. Its everywhere at all times, did you know that?) to lie across his belly till he goes quiet.  Once down and quietened, I can get to work.  I am convinced what takes me so long is the utter need to avoid cutting them, my poor little babies.  The shears one uses are these big nasty looking metal things that slice back and forth like the worse of Freddy's Nightmares.  They are frightening to look at, but they have to be that way to get through the wool.   They are also terribly easy to lose track of and cut a poor innocent little sheep ( or fingers--trust me, I've done it) with.  So, I go very slowly, especially in the angled bits like armpits and chins.   They are already feeling an extreme sense of betrayal, I am sure, that their usually very docile human, the one who gives them bananas and horse cookies from her very hands, is now lying across them threatening them with very large, very scary, very noisy moving metal scissors.  I figure the least I can do is try my hardest not to cut them.

At any rate, the sheep eventually get sheared. I have learned a little bit more how to best go about doing this once a year project and I can sleep a little easier knowing my little boys wont roast to death under a 6 inch layer of wool come July and our 100 degree days.

I guess it does not really matter that right now my back aches so bad I can barely sit at this computer and type.

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