Drawing a Blank

My internet has been down all afternoon, and there’s nothing like a bit of disconnectivity to get me thinking—and writing a bit about why I haven’t been writing, or photographing, or doing much of anything creative.

I'm in a creative slump. A lull. A block so big it puts Kubrick’s monkey-loving monolith to shame. It has sucked up every shred and tatter of what little creativity I possess and has been holding it ransom for months.

It’s frustrating. Downright infuriating, really. I know it happens to everyone, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Part of the problem is my life, lately, is uninteresting. My job is interesting. I myself, I hope, am interesting. But I spend all day and night at home, tucked away behind the four walls of my home, rarely having the need to go outdoors. Hell, I even have my groceries delivered, so I can go a week without stepping outside.

Some days I think I might have a slight case of agoraphobia, but most times I recognize that I’m just an extremely introverted person. I need down time from social situations. I enjoy the seclusion. Most days.

Other days, I confess, I get a bit angry at myself. How much am I letting pass me by? How much laughter, experience, opportunity, living am I missing out on?

All because I’m horribly over-self-aware. I find social situations exhausting because I’m constantly editing myself. Don’t do this. Don’t say that. Do they think I’m pretty? Stupid? Funny? Horrible? Do they like me?

Do they like me?

This question lies inside the minds of many burgeoning creatives. Supposedly, if the many interviews and blogs I read of other artists I admire are to be believed, there’s some sort of enlightenment way up ahead: the “eff it if they don’t like me/my art--I do" moment.

Where is that moment? When is that moment? Considering it’s how I live my life, not just my art, I wonder if I can actually find the where or when. I think the answer, for me, is “not without change."

I’ll be honest, I’m terrified. Change frightens me. But tying myself up in a little, perfect box and never letting anyone, ever, any time see what’s inside—least of all myself—frightens me much more.

I want to break free. Break out. Break away.

And with one block removed, perhaps all the rest will come tumbling down.

This isn’t going to be easy—but I suppose nothing truly worthwhile ever is. I only hope I have the strength not just to take one step forward, but many. Repeatedly. 

Best of 2010

I'm a little behind on this tradition, but I finally went through my photos of 2010 to cherrypick my favorites. Less creative shoots this year, but I plan to make up for that in 2011. There are several shots from Italy, a workshop that had a profound effect on me last year.



I find it useful to do these annual reviews as it reveals where I improved, what I left behind, where I still have work to do. It's an exercise that keeps me growing!

I May Never Grow Up

Last week, I went out to dinner with a neighbor, and we later stopped by Target so she could finish shopping for gifts for children in need. She needed to buy supplies for three girls and three boys of varying ages, and I was happy to help.

At one point, I spotted a huge Hello Kitty display in the children's clothing section and squealed out "Hello Kitty!" with exuberance before I could stop myself. An employee I hadn't noticed in the area burst out laughing, and I cowed my head, embarrassed, because I hadn't realized how loud I was. As we passed her, she said to me, "That's awesome. Even I'm excited now. I love your enthusiasm!"

My neighbor then said, "Kerry, the older girl is about 12. I think Hello Kitty may be too young for her."

To which I replied, "I'm 32 and haven't outgrown Hello Kitty yet. I think we're safe."



Some Hello Kitty Band-Aids eventually wound up in the gift boxes. =^_^=

I get stupid excited about silly things, to the point I actually lose my inhibitions in my passion. I become completely un-self-aware, which is a welcome break from the hyperawareness I practice the rest of the time. Sometimes I catch myself, like above, and the hyperawareness takes over with crippling embarrassment, but nearly every time the person I'm with comments on how they envy my passion and hope I never lose it.

I find I hope the same.

My passions can be blinding, to the point I throw myself into them without abandon and momentarily forget everything else around me. I've lost hours doodling or futzing with a photo concept until I get it just right, forgetting sometimes to drink or eat meals.

I still remember once, when I was much younger, using crayons to create a stippling rendition of a tree while sitting on a balcony of some hotel I was staying in with my parents. My parents had been calling me for a while, but I never heard them, so intent was I on making those little colored dots on paper. When they found me and spoke my name from right behind me, I was startled so badly I dropped my crayons, and the drawing was whisked away by a gust of wind. I was heartbroken, and we searched for it as well we could, but it was time to leave.

To this day I think it may have been the most beautiful, inspired thing I've ever created. And I keep chasing that moment of utter devotion and creation that takes me into my own little world for however brief a time.

It's why I keep picking up my camera. I know that the pictures I take aren't world-shattering or world-expanding the way many images I respect by fellow artists are. Most of the time, I'm okay with that. At others, I wish my humble images would open another view of the world to others, shake their foundations a little, or make them contemplate the grandness of life and its infinite variety for just a moment.

...and then I'll get an idea that washes all that angsty self-doubt and loathing right away, and I can't wait to go creating again.

Sometimes, it's just wonderful to act like a kid again. I highly recommend it.

Stop overthinking it. Just go create.

And laugh a lot while doing so.

Italy: Framed

Well, look what showed up all unexpected-like today! The folks at Artistic Photo Canvas really surprised me with the speed and quality of my very first super-huge canvas print. The customer service was great, as I hadn't realized custom sizes were an option. Knowing I was concerned about any cropping since my composition went right to the edges, they contacted me and said the size I selected would crop the sides, and a 32 x 48 would ensure no cropping.

Three days later, I have a gorgeous new addition to my walls. Color me super impressed, APC!

So without further ado, the unveiling...









I love the texture and feel the canvas gives my print.





The deliveryman arrived while I was eating dinner. I somehow found the constraint to finish my meal before eagerly hanging this in its new home.



I'm off to go sit and stare in awe at it the rest of the evening...

When Pressing the Shutter Really Matters

It's been a while since I've written anything here. Shortly after my last post, I received some disheartening news, and from there life—and seemingly unending travel—rudely got in the way. I've spent the past couple weeks trying to gear myself up for this post, because I needed to not have the keyboard blurred by tears when I wrote it.

So far, so good.

Three weeks ago, an amazing woman died. Her name was Dorothy Hartnett. She was my grandmother.



...hang on. Apparently I will need a tissue for this.

Grandma Dot, as she was affectionately known by her grandkids, lived for eighty-six years, and in that lifetime she accomplished some amazing things.

Several years ago, a school project required me to phonetically transcribe part of a subject's recorded speech. Since we were in Texas, and my grandmother was from Wisconsin, I thought I'd be different and submit something other than the Southern drawl we were bound to hear from all the students. What I ended up with was a two-hour interview of my grandmother telling her life story, without interruption.

She was a first-class welder on the Liberty Ships. She was a photographer in a dance hall. She hitchhiked rides from home to school on a regular basis, lassoed a moose in a lake and had it drag her through the water, and burned her eyebrows off with a stove. She lived with Macy's models for a time, and she later managed a small shop in a ritzy hotel (where she was warned not to go upstairs with any of the guests; her friend did not listen to the sage advice). And she met a young man named Joe, who she referred to impishly as "the little fat boy." She also had this irritating habit of ending most of her sentences with a trailing "and that..." which made me want to ask, "And what?"

She was amazing. And stubborn. Right after Christmas she had another heart attack. My mother called and said they didn't expect her to last another week. Family descended upon the house to say their farewells, last rites were read, and we waited.

My grandmother was always a bit mischievous. She lived on for months afterward.

A year ago, my parents believed enough in my photographic ability to gift me with a new camera. I spent four hours reading the manual, then I wandered around the house taking pictures of whatever I could.

In the back room where my grandmother stayed, there were two recliners. She always sat in the one by the door. For some reason, this one day when I had a camera in my eager hands, she was sitting in the second chair, which was next to a large window. I raised my camera. She protested she didn't want her picture taken. I said something to the effect that I was a spoiled grandchild and she should spoil me on this one.

As we were preparing for her services, my aunt asked me for those photos. I went through them and had my breath catch when I saw the photo at the top of this post. That image, with her slight smirk and knowing eyes, is my grandma. That expression conveys everything I knew and loved about her. I feel like I'm sitting in that back room with her again, and she's spoiling me in some way. Devious. Impish. Loving. Wise. I will forever cherish this photo.

Too often I spend my time pointing my camera outside: at other people, objects, or places I have seen and experienced or are important to other people, other families. Too rarely do I turn the camera in, to capture memories of those important to me. It's rather silly, really, to not photograph what is so dear to me. I forget, much too often, that photography is not just about a perfect exposure or composition. The goal isn't just to have a pretty picture. Photographs are memories.

I will remember.

Grandma, thank you for always indulging me. I would not have this memory of you if you'd ever stopped spoiling me.

My Dream Job ... Isn't Photography?

I'm sorry, photography. It's not you, it's me.

Actually, it's editing, standing over there in the corner, brazenly brandishing that saucy red pen.

She is my first love, and I've never gotten over her. Truth be told, we've been in a long-term relationship the past ten years.

You, photography, are wonderfully captivating. Bright and new. I will always love you. I will always pursue you. But I'm afraid you will never oust editing from my heart.

Especially not when the job I've dreamed about since chasing after my English degree a decade ago just posted an opening. One I finally have the experience for. At the imprint that's pressed its mark into my heart ever since that first black spine drew my eyes.



So please, don't hold it against me. We'll always have Paris, and Russia, and Madrid.

But London's calling, and I have to try to make it work with editing. I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't.

The Self-Portrait Project

Last year I embarked on a 365 project. I more-than-half succeeded. Finally, all those crazy self-portraits may do me some good.



I've just learned about The Self-Portrait Project at Artists Wanted. Thinking not enough people had seen my silly SP antics, I threw my port out there for more public embarrassment. If you have a moment, take a gander. And if you like the portfolio, give it a vote, would ya'? You can vote once every 24 hours, if you feel so inclined.