What's Art? What's Not.

Having slugged through Art courses given by artists, slapping on the word art doesn't impress me. And it surely did not turn me into an artist even though I loved the time spent dabbling at it. Art is anything. Truly. A tree whose leaves have fallen. A bird that sings gloriously to our ears. Clouds and sea and land that grips our hearts and has impact when we look at it, is art. Art is fun to do and recreational and soul searching. But "artist" is not merely a word like "art" we can toss around. The courses in drawing and painting did not come near to making me or most of the other students, artists. It introduced us to the love of doing those things and an appreciation of what a true artist is. They are the few who had genuine talent, did the work learning how to become an artist and then went out and "did" art and some went on to evolve from their learning to develop their own styles, to do their own art and hone what that became. Some created items that were of their own minds and spirits. To many, they look simple. They didn't look at other true artists and say, "Aha, I can do that" and flew out to buy a stack of paint tubes, go off to their "studios" and slap on the colour and call themselves "artists". Those are the overnight roadies. The true artist emerges from a very long pregnancy of their muses after they have accomplished all of the necessary background in techniques and practice and sacrifice. So, years later,  made a dot and called  it art or piled a bunch of squares cleverly arranged or made horrors of paint slapped everywhere or dripped or smeared or globbed on a piece of canvas or wood or leather or a wall. But before they did that thing which they call their development in the field, they did the work. They didn't smugly look at someone else's creation and say, "Hey, I can do that." Of course they can, and some even get away with selling their art knock offs, but it isn't art by an artist. That stuff is called "craft". There are those who defend their artism by spouting off their theories but no, sorry, you must do the work and it's hard work and years and years of it. The people who know true art, know the difference between playing an artist and being one. People will go to amateur art shows and enjoy what they see and buy the pieces, but let's not kid ourselves. It's kind of fun art done by those who don't want to do the work. They like to sit down and have fun painting or sketching or cartooning or drawing. They are having a good, easy time and loving it. Many of them could even be great artists, but unfortunately true art isn't something you can trip into and become, overnight. Your doctor has mega years of training before he or she can be called doctor. The architect studies and works and does years of education just as teachers and accountants and scientists and so on, do. They are the professionals because they have proved they know the nitty and the gritty of their titles. Anyone can do art, but few are artists.

Whining

Sorry, for the term, but it behooves me to read in the daily news that some who are lucky enough to have escaped with their lives after a bad experience take their worries to the press. It makes headlines but why? Sue fodder? Do dollars really pay for it?  Personal trauma seems to me to be a rather private issue, one that is kept within private circles, not blared out to the general public. A broad public tragedy is naturally public business but individual ones are certainly not of my media interest. It's okay for the people who spend their lives moaning and groaning over things they can do absolutely nothing about.  I guess coming from a place where, in The Day, we had to grit our teeth and work out our own ways of dealing with bad things and found that, eventually, "getting over it", worked.  Everyone has experiences that are unpleasant and sometimes downright tragic, but where the "getting over it" takes place is within our own selves. And yes, we are strong enough to do it. It is a natural strength built into all human beings to call on. If we wish to. No matter how many visits with psychiatrists and weeper shoulders, the solution to a bad time, ends up with the sufferer who decides to stop wailing and get on with it. I am not a fan of the "just get over it" clan because, of course,  it isn't that easy to do, but I do think that given too much crutch time, one becomes dependent upon it. I know a few people who spend their entire lives trying to "find" themselves in going on retreats and to forums and counselors and doctors and gurus. The ending of their on-going problems is taking on or throwing off their burdens all by themselves. Too much navel gazing can't be stepping over the discomforts of trauma and finding your feet. Sure, you are going to dream about it and re-experience the event but that's natural and the stuff you have to live with, and it's okay. With patience, your "cure" will happen naturally. Pills and hours of yakking with someone else helps perhaps, but the day will come when they don't work and you either accept that the bad thing is part of the past, not the present or you go on crutching forever. You, alone, own it and cling to it, and no one else can fix it but you. And you can find a way all by yourself by being kind to yourself and believing in your own beautiful and strong, self.

Sister No More

At this stage, it isn't unusual to see your relatives die of old age. Everyone tells you "they are in a better place" and other platitudes well meant. No matter how old or young you are, you miss your dear ones who are no longer around. You miss them when they are gone as much as an amputated body part.The ghost limb remains. A sister, and I suppose, a brother, not that I had one, is a unique relationship. Men might go about wrestling and competing in sporty ways as brother boys but sisters tend to cling smilingly to each other. A sister as close as mine was in coming into life, was always there. She was the face I saw most during my days and the one who was with me, beside me for the next decades. We grew up together. We shared all of the fears and joys and struggles and achievements and failures and loves and likes. There is a bond in living together in sisterhood that is like none other. We have friends who come and go but sisterhood is much like being one person with two sides. There are no mysteries between sisters, no politenesses, no faking. You can't play mind games with someone from whom you are always an arm's length away. They know you as well as you know yourself. There are the usual sibling rivalries and spats but when they pass, you are both still there and needing and wanting to resolve what appears to separate you. Older sisters have the role of always being responsible to "take care" of their "little" sisters and younger sisters always resent that role. Younger sisters resent that their sibling came first and appears to "run" everything and be the achievers they don't perhaps in their eyes, come up to.  Older sisters envy their "little" sisters who are the darlings who are funny and cute while they must maintain their "educator" selves as examples to their younger siblings. My sister was not a year younger than I. We shared a room, we slept in the same big bed. We talked about and discussed things that only two females can. We shared life later, as we lived it. Our lives were closely entwined until we left puberty and became young women. Somehow, social and other events got in the way of being constantly close as each of us trod our own paths and made choices in our own ways. No one says you have to be alike in what you do and where you go and with whom you associate. But no one ever can break the bond that sisterhood has, no matter how life plays out. You know that your sister is always there when you need her. She knows it, too, no matter how far apart you are. You both know that you are sisters as long as life lasts. My sister's life ended rather suddenly not long ago and she slipped away as I watched the process day by day. We spoke of our life as sisters and about death and somehow it made what was to be, easier. She was still warm, even though she had left life when I kissed her good-bye, and thanked her for being my sister.

Selling The Farm

In the Why Not department, one can ask, why not make old folks' homes, farms? Some of my favorite recollections were holiday times on The Farm. The Farm was where my grandparents lived in Maple Ridge. In those days, it was called Haney. When I grow old enough to need a "home", I would love it to be a kind of farm. I don't mind living farther away from malls and hospitals and city parks. With transportation these days, no one in a rural area is very far from those so-called amenities. Give me The Farm again. I don't mind waking to the crowing of a rooster or the mooing of a cow. Going out to collect warm eggs from under a hen would be a pleasure, even if it were in a wheel chair or a walker. Watching or participating in morning cow milking with a little squirted at the barn cats, would be a delight to see. Watching breakfast being made in front of my eyes and those of my fellows, seeing fresh baked loaves taken out of the oven and pie crust rolled and filled before me, would inspire tears of joy in the memories of my little pioneer grandmother's busy hands. Rather than sitting at a table for four in a "home" no matter how cute and pretty it is, is simply not the same as seated at a long table covered in oil cloth with simple bowls and plates sans the fancy napkins, tablecloths or horrors, the tacky bibs! I care not for gazebos and tidy banks of roses and geraniums and trimmed hedges and groomed grass. Give me a verandah that overlooks a vegetable garden surrounded by an old wood fence with climbing beans and peas and a yard dotted with fruit trees of hanging apples or pears or cherries to pick at will. To smell hay or fruit tree blossoms or even the barnyard would be heavenly. Sitting on a bench next to a field of grazing cows or sheep or goats or horses, is the best relaxer there is; better than your spas and physio therapies and oxygen tanks and pills. Someone someday will get wise to constructing a farm setting for old folks, a place that you could not only enjoy being in, but also partaking in. Elders, even those with certain unfriendly situations, can help prepare meals, fold laundry or do some gardening if the beds are raised. Helping oneself and others is far more appealing and constructive than crafts classes and counselling. When a monthly stay in a "home" costs in the neighbourhood of five thousand or more dollars, it seems to me, changes of this nature would not only be cheaper, but also be much more conducive to longer lives, and to peace and enjoyment during one's final years. Why not?

Hire Older Workers?

Many companies begin to treat their employees who reach middle age, with a certain amount of careless deference. They begin to make comments about aging such as "you look tired today - everything okay?" and "if you can't get it done today, take a break, we can ask one of the new guys" or "hey, you must be looking forward to retirement in a few years". The older worker takes the sting and laughs it off, but it does sting. They are generally by-passed, if so, on promotions with aside excuses such as "jaded", "tire more easily", getting near retirement", "slacking off", "need a rest", "too well paid" and so on. Bosses tend to pander to the young and willing because they give more of their free time and effort beyond normal so as to ensure their jobs. It's natural. But the the younger worker frequently looks down competitively upon the older worker as someone "doing the job too slowly or without a lot of enthusiasm". How many times, do we hear around the coffee table that the older worker "slacks off" while the younger speaker says "I can do the job much better"? The fact that the older worker paces him or herself  which can look slow, but which is things more aptly and carefully done, is a learned method, not a fault. Speed doesn't always have a good result unless there is a deal of caution against error.   A younger worker has more energy to pour on, but experience is, for the most part, better. Zip and zap are two different aspects of accomplishment. Zip does it fast that sometimes flops, and zap does it with the invisible steady magic of experience. Both can be fine, but "zap" is more stable while "zip" often fails. The older worker knows that he doesn't have to rush and why should he or she want to, when stress, self applied or not, has bad effects as seen in mistakes that cost the company money. Younger workers always have another opportunity in mind and will leave one job for another without losing much. Also, circumstances such a a spouse having to make a job relocation, can lead to them leaving their own work with little notice. The older worker stays on because of invested pension funds and time and loyalties to the company even though he sees retirement approaching. He or she also has established a stable relationship with the employer and plans to stay with it, good times and bad. A younger worker will not, and cannot. Hiring older workers is also a good move. They need a job to keep up their lifestyles and this often results in a willingness to give more to their jobs than the younger staff who still have a lot to learn, not only on the job but also with the ability to put the job and all that it entails, into a reliable perspective. It's finding that balance to keep on the tried and true worker, while respecting the vital place in a company for both young and older employees.