Seeking the Sublime in the Everyday

Recently you’ve been screaming in pain when I get out of the car, or hoist myself up from the sofa.  I’ve tried everything to shut you up--ibuprophen, a chiropractor, acupuncture. I may have reminded you that nobody else complains--my back, neck, knees, hands and feet, shoulders--everybody’s doing fine.  Now I’m working with a trainer to build up your strength and flexibility. He said, “When you feel no pain, remember to be grateful.” I think of all the miles we’ve walked,  on city streets, often in high heels. That couldn’t have been fun for you. All the soccer games, the field hockey. We had so much fun with the Hula Hoop and the Twist. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I said you were too wide. I should have thanked you for all those soft landings on the ski slopes  Oh, and how could I forget; thank you for the easy delivery of two beautiful babies. I look forward to many more years with you, and I promise to be kinder. My hip trouble has made me think of this piec

    Thank you for all the nice responses to my Thanksgiving in New York City.  Here are some thoughts I had as I drew it, and as I look back at it.     This is the south facing side of the American Museum of Natural History on 77th Street Between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue. I took some liberties here; you can’t actually look in the windows and see the great herd of elephants.  They stand in all their glory in the Hall of African Mammals.  While I’m grateful that they are preserved for posterity I can’t help knowing that those beautiful creatures would have much preferred to live out their lives.   I imagine the terror they, especially the baby, felt as the guns roared—maybe his mother died first and he was left alone. I’m appalled at pictures of hunters gloating over dead animals.  I often say, “Couldn’t you just look?  Why do you have to kill them?”  But here I am gazing in wonder at the results of that carnage, so grateful that they’re standing still so I can draw th

The Evolution of Inspiration I showed this drawing to my second grade students and one girl said, “She’s the Baseball Queen, and she saves all the home run balls.” And I said, “Eureka!” The woman is the sculpture, “Memory”, who sits at Broadway and 106th Street in the memorial to  Isidore and Ida Strauss who went down with the Titanic. The baseball players? For months, vague ideas had been swirling in my head, centered on the great American Pastime. In my neighborhood there was Dads and Daughters softball.  Several men gathered on Saturday mornings with their daughters to help the girls develop their skills and build confidence on the field.  The girls had other ideas, twirling, looking at the sky, practicing cartwheels--anything but batting and fielding. I thought there was a story there, but I didn’t know what.  Girls and baseball, feeling left out, the sense of longing; a baseball stew bubbled in my head. ThenI learned Leonardo DaVinci’s last words and I couldn’t get

Why do I draw Baseball? Why Baseball?  I once said to my brother, Alan, “Did you love baseball for itself or for all the time you spent with Dad?”  His answer was, “It was all so wonderful, why choose?” That’s a typical answer from my family, one that left me wanting. Wanting what? Baseball infused my life--the constant sound of the game on the radio or TV, the never ending games of catch in our yard and even in the living room. But baseball wasn’t for me. I didn’t like standing in the hot sun with people yelling and throwing things at me.  I have no interest in sitting through a whole game but I do like to watch on TV where I can see a beautiful play again and again on the replay. It’s not the game itself, it's the mystique.  There’s something about boys. I remember the moment when I was very little and realized I would grow up to be a woman like my mother, not a man like Daddy. I wasn’t disappointed but I wasn’t thrilled either.  It was more like...well, Ok. I watched m