Liz Huston

Original Art, Musings and Photography

In the quiet, I came to know something

The shoppe has been busy today,  but there was a moment of utter quiet. That moment brought an epiphany, which I quickly scribbled on a greeting card. I am presenting it faithfully here with very few changes to capture the essence of what I felt.

When there is space
(in our schedules, in our days, in our physical space, in our mind, in our hearts),
it will be filled with something.
(Maybe that’s why we keep ourselves so busy?)
Lucky for me, today’s moment revealed itself to me filled with something sublime.

In that quiet, empty space I wrote this.

22 September 2017

Inside, the music lends a refined ambience
thick with ethereal voices and angelic magic.

Outside, the hall is empty and quiet –
My thoughts are my own for a moment
I hear my name and dive in.

My eyes gaze upon
“Where You Meet Yourself’
and she stares back at me.

I marvel that it even exists at all.

I made it.
I remember the journey so well I could get lost in it.
Moving from the muscle memory of painting and making
and an entirely new feeling comes.

Suddenly I know;
I have been so fortunate…

The art life was a dream –
forgotten and remembered the way dreams are.

I took the long road on my way to becoming an artist, I joke.
But oh, I have been so fortunate…

It was Life itself that met me in the middle.
(early one morning, in soul crushing traffic)

Or was it the Eternal who met me in the middle
(and is there any difference?)

Who whispered, “art is the answer”?
Because I heard you.
I listened and made form,
I made a whole life from that moment,
only to return again and again to dialogue some more.

The dialogue with the eternal,
could there be anything more sublime?

I have been so fortunate to worship,
not at the feet of some abstract god,
but at the altar of life and mystery and soul.

The place where wisdom tempers fear,
where wounds give gifts.

I am so fortunate to know the way,
and even more fortunate to return bearing gifts to share.

Day after day I showed up and made the work.
but not alone. Never alone.
Always in the company of the Eternal.


What We Have, What We Want, and What We Believe About it All


“Self Help as a Competitive Sport” Original Art by Liz Huston

On paper, I have a pretty lovely life.
I’m a full-time artist, operating a little shoppe which sells my art inside the best bookstore ever.
My daughter is incredible, our cat is fat and happy, and the guest house I rent is just big enough for a little garden and an upright piano of my very own. I have not missed a single daily meditation in over two years, visit the gym nearly every morning, and am surrounded by the kindest, fiercest, most brilliant and loving women around.
So why did I fall into the worst depression of my life recently?
Burnout? Un-fulfillment? Loneliness? Lack of love? All of the above?
I have a lifetime history of depression, as I’ve already mentioned ad nauseum, but this was different. This was bigger. Possibly exacerbated by the intense energy of our world right now (the litany of which I will spare you).
From where I am today, I see now that it had been creeping up on me slowly; stalking me for months. Once panic attacks became the norm, then the tears couldn’t stop. Surrendering to the sadness I let myself fall into despair, which is not a recommended path.

However, I am clearly a survivor, and did emerge, thanks to friends and shamans. I learned something big in the process that wants to be shared.

What we have.
I began this blog with an inventory of the things I “have” in life.
Small accomplishments worked at daily to create a life I like and sometimes, I love. It’s important to look around at all the miracles, gifts, blessings we do have. Mindfulness is helpful for this – it keeps us present. Also helpful to remember is that mindfulness is a practice. Not a perfection. Practice.

What we want.
It’s hard to measure the elusive happiness by what we have. We spend our time chasing something for happiness or fulfillment, and once we get ‘there’ we learn that ‘there’ has moved. We want something more. Something else. I think that perhaps wanting, in its essence, is a good thing that keeps us growing and expanding. In its negative sense, it keeps us from ever feeling the pleasure of where we are.
We want a good relationship. We want money in the bank. We want a certain kind of lifestyle. We want world peace. We want to learn, to travel, to love. Wanting so many things…

What we believe.
This is the kicker. What do we really believe about what we have? What do we really believe about what we want?

Getting into the nitty gritty of what we actually believe isn’t as easy as you’d think. We have a lot of internal defenses protecting our precious beliefs. If you doubt this, just think about the last time you questioned someone else about their beliefs. Pretty hard to change their mind, huh? The same goes for us, on the inside.

One of my teachers once said, “A belief is just a thought you keep thinking”. That stuck with me, and has taken years to unwrap. It spontaneously unwrapped today at the gym. I wasn’t looking for it. In the rhythm of my run when BAM! An internal belief suddenly revealed itself.

That belief was rooted in a desire: I want to be an artist.
Which is good, because I am an artist. Yay. But…

What do I believe about being an artist?
Oh, well, artists paint *this* way with oil paints. And they live in this place (which just happens to be Paris in the 1890’s). And they have lots of painter friends that they get together with and share secrets at the local cafe. They smoke a pack a day and drink exotic booze. They rarely sleep as they’re up all night painting. Oh, and they’re men.

Deep down inside, THIS is what I believe about being an artist?
Is this why no matter how many pieces I create, no matter how many pieces I sell or where I exhibit – I never really feel like a ‘real’ artist?
Because deep down inside I believe real artists are men.
Deep down, I believe they paint exclusively with oils. In Paris. In the 1890’s.

Logically, these beliefs are absurd! I’ll never, ever achieve these things without a time machine – except maybe the oil painting part (which I’m diligently working towards, I might add). But I digress.
I’m a woman who lives in Los Angeles in 2017, who tends to be a bit of an introvert, who is primarily a digital artist that also paints. I quit smoking and don’t drink very much anymore at all. Hm. Not at all like what I ‘believe’ an artist looks like.

It occurs to me that what I believe about being an artist is rooted in a very shallow lifestyle. I don’t really consider myself a shallow person, so this revelation was disturbing – and sharing it in public, even more so. Examining this, the truth about what I want is revealed. I want a life, THE ART LIFE, not a lifestyle. Why is what I want in direct opposition with what I believe?

Where did I get such an idea? How did it become such a deeply held belief? What do I do about it now that I’ve realized it? Well, if it’s true that a ‘belief is just a thought you keep thinking’ then, maybe I could cultivate a new belief. A new picture of what I believe an artist looks like. I don’t know that it’s as easy as all that – but it’s worth the consideration and definitely worth the practice.

Gotta tell ya, now that I’ve seen this so clearly, am looking around in my internal house at all those beliefs which are covered in thick cobwebs and wondering, “what else is in here?”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, I’ll tackle one big belief at a time. I mean, it is a really big one…

* * * *

Here’s to unearthing our beliefs, one at a time.



Why are you sad?

These days I am having a hard time keeping my mind still. So many distractions, fears, worries, tweets – all striving for the seats in the front row of my mind. They are not the thoughts I want, but they are the usual suspects, and they are seemingly always there. And their message? GLOOM and DOOM, baby. Nothing but gloom and doom.

The ones I want? Those thoughts filled with hope, inspiration and love? They are always there too, though much quieter, and usually relegated to the background. Which is perhaps why meditation is so valuable, it just occurred to me. The constancy of love is always waiting patiently behind the fears and the worries. When we get quiet, that is when we can find the way to the quiet voices in the back. It is a sensitive but formidable force, love.

A friend recently asked me via text message, why I’m so sad. He said he’d only known me melancholy and wondered what I’m sad about. Why am I so sad? I have been struggling with the answer for days.

I admit. At first I was infuriated.
How dare he?

Then I felt ashamed.
How dare I?
How dare I infect this troubled world with my sadness.
That’s not the ‘legacy’ I want to leave behind. I don’t want people to remember me by how sad I was. Yes, I’m sensitive. I often cry and feel the weight of the world, like so many of us do…but I don’t want to be remembered that way.

Why am I so sad?
Maybe it’s because the world is broken and it hurts me to see so much suffering. Maybe it’s because I gave the bullies in my mind a front row seat so often that they are rooted there. Maybe it’s because there are bullies in charge and they want to destroy society. Maybe it’s because I still miss my husband. Maybe it’s just what I learned at a young age because of rape and abuse. Maybe I still have a medical condition (bipolar) that needs treatment. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe this friend pushes my buttons so much so that I have learned to just not be well around him so as to avoid the uncomfortable confrontation, and in the handful of times we have been in each other’s company, he has never seen me truly happy, only guarded.

Maybe it’s all of these things and none of these things.
I have a predisposition towards melancholy. I have a fondness for nostalgia. I feel out of place in this time and space. I’ve often longed for a time and place that may have never existed, but I can find it in my dreams, and that tends to come out in my art.

I think his question and my impulse to answer it suggests a power over the melancholy, the power and ability to choose thoughts from the back row, from the well of love instead of the loudest and brashest of voices. There is value in that, for sure. Choose your thoughts wisely, become aware of the stories you tell yourself.  Someone (or somethings) are weaving the story of your life – it might as well be you.

So, would I choose melancholy? Sometimes, yeah, I would.
It’s comfortable, familiar and quite beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I choose joy.

And sometimes (oftentimes), I feel like I have no choice at all.
This is all part of the life I am living.
I manage my sadness in many ways, and remembering that I can choose a slightly different voice is helpful. Sometimes.

An open letter to the woman who broke my art

*I posted this back in January on a blog that I will discontinue. Reposting it here so as to save it when I deactivate the other one.*

January 22, 2017

It was a day truly unlike any other day.

We had both spent the morning marching in solidarity with our sisters and brothers for a cause we both feel important, The Women’s March. There were hundreds of thousands of people in Downtown LA, more than I have ever seen gathered in one place, at one time, for the same reason. The energy was palpable, heart centered and beautiful, and as we would all later learn, it spread around the world! It was a big day, energetically.

After marching for several hours, I decided to go and open my shoppe, which was conveniently located at the center of it all at 5th and Spring Streets in Downtown LA. The interaction with the first woman who came in to my shoppe was beautiful; we connected on a deep level and she stayed for quite a bit.

The next people to come in was a group of ladies, whom I believe you were with. Everyone was sparkling with this empowered and connected energy of the day, which was centered in goodness. Reveling in that good feeling, something outside caught your eye, you went to look out the window and accidentally knocked one of my most beloved pieces of art onto the floor, “Whatever You Love, You Are”.

I can still hear the shattering sound it made when it hit the ground. It was loud and sharp, like hitting a cymbal with an axe.

My heart paused and I truly couldn’t even bring myself to look.

What happened next was I guess the best any of us could have done. I don’t remember who turned it over to see the damage, but I held back my tears with as much strength as I could muster as I saw that yes, the antique frame was cracked and broken. The hard to find antique bubble glass, shattered. The print beneath the glass, badly scratched. I was surprised at how much that hurt me, inside.

I know it wasn’t personal, it was an accident. But my art means so much, I couldn’t articulate my thoughts into a coherent sentence. As a business owner, I should have had a “break it you buy it sign”. I did not. (I do now). Nothing has ever broken in these 4 years here. I had no plan for such an event.

What you did next is where my injury really lies, however. You were trying to make it good, I know this, but went about it in such a way as to actually cause more harm.

You told me, “That’s a print, so I know it can be replaced. Those frames, you can find more of them.”

I woke up this morning with those words burning in my mind. How wrong you were in those assumptions. The antique frame, sure, with some effort, can be replaced. It was, however, special and of sentimental value, which cannot be replaced.

The print, well, that was the very last in a small edition of 5 plus 2 artist proofs. The one you broke, that was the very last artist proof I had. So no, it is not “replaceable”. I have more integrity than that. I will not reprint an artist proof, as that is not the purpose of an artist proof. It is to proof the colors, the quality of the print, when making an edition. It’s not just an open window to make another print whenever I feel like it. I honor the numbers of my collections. I honor my collectors.

Basically what you did was try to tell me that my art wasn’t worth anything after your carelessness destroyed a piece of it. And I, stunned at the chasm between the hope and connection I felt minutes earlier and the shattered glass before me, knew that I could not respond eloquently.
So I said nothing.

Anything I would have said at that moment would have been filled with venom and truly not in the spirit of the day, nor in the spirit of who I am as a person. You did not offer to pay for your mistake. And I did not insist. I knew I could not insist. I had no established precedent or had a break-it-you-buy-it warning posted.

That is the first and last time I will respond like that. Were I to be exhibiting another artist’s work, even without a sign, I would have fought tooth and nail to get that artist payment for your carelessness. I’d have notified my insurance and even paid the deductible if I had to so my artist could be compensated.

I know this about myself. I fight for others whenever I see injustice. But when it comes to myself? That is a battle I’m not so good at, and oh, I am so ashamed to admit this. It’s easier for me to fight for someone else’s good, than it is my own. I never saw it so clearly. You taught me that. Thank you.

It’s not news to consider how hard it is for artists to place a dollar value on creations of the hands and heart. Nor how hard it is for artists to ask the price we know our work is worth. It’s even harder to find an audience capable and willing to pay those prices.

I did the work, poured my heart and soul into it. I then came up with a price, and after all these years, have found collectors to support the work at the prices I ask. They are not unreasonable prices, some have commented that they are rather low.

Just to break it down for you; I spent 3 months of my life creating the piece of art you broke. 3 months, plus a lifetime of learning. 3 months plus 4 years running my own gallery, working 80 hours a week, every week (sometimes much more) to make my art and to get it in front of the eyeballs who will appreciate it and support it.

Your carelessness broke the result of that effort, my chance to be compensated for the creation of that labor of love. And in that, you have taught me the true value of my work. So for that lesson, I suppose, I must also thank you. I now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what my work is worth.

I am keeping the piece you broke, in my home, as a reminder of what the true value of what I do. In a way, I’m glad you didn’t offer to pay and that I didn’t insist. I feel that perhaps you didn’t value what I do enough to own it.

But I do.

Thank you for that very harsh lesson in worth. I hope that you have learned something from this as well. I hope you will be more careful and aware in the future, and maybe not be so diminishing of the value of another’s craft. I in turn, hope that I will do better at standing up for myself.

Look, things break. This is life. I accept that. And because I choose to live mythically, looking for symbols and meaning in life, I choose to make this a learning experience. When I say thank you for the lesson, I truly mean it.

Sometimes it’s really hard to see the things we need to learn, and we need bigger lesson example. I wish my art hadn’t broken, but such is life. Things break. The current flows on. The lessons get applied. And finally, to that first woman who stayed during the whole thing; the woman who guarded my shoppe when I had to take the broken glass to the trash can, who held me as I finally cried, who embodied the support and solidarity I felt earlier and desperately needed to see again in that vulnerable moment…Thank you.

Day One of One Hundred

Today I recognized the miracle of being alive. The miracle of being in a healthy body.

It was a remarkable sensation.
But let me back up first.

Yesterday was a low day for me. A very, very low day. My tendency towards melancholia crept in, and I was listless, devoid of energy or inspiration. It hurt. Physically. It hurt. I spent much of the day crying and trying to make art of out of the sadness which I could not name. But, in the end, had little to show for it.

Needing to get out of my house, needing to get out of my head, and into my body, I took myself on a hike. It was a late enough in the day where the sun was mild, and the shade abundant.


I walked.
I hopped across the stream multiple times, and for the first time in 8 years, I fell. I slipped, slid, caught air, and landed firmly on my butt. Knocked the wind right out of me! (I’m okay, just some minor scrapes). But I realized my punishing thoughts were consuming me and distracting me. After the fall, with each step, I practiced being completely present and wouldn’t ya know it? Gained a certain clarity.

In that clarity, a dare came to me. A dare to commit to a specific set of goals for the next 100 days. It seems like a lot to commit to; but I’ve already been doing it more often than not, so it’s really a fine tuning of the practices I’ve come to love. This 100 day personal challenges includes the gym, meditation, drawing practice, journaling, social media, practicing the piano, and of course, eating well.

When I got home, I plotted my challenge, arranged my goals and counted from July 6 (day one) to 100 days in the future. I was shocked at the date. October 13, 2017, is 100 days from today, July 6. October 13 would have been my 13th wedding anniversary.


Now that I realize the personal significance of the date, this challenge means more than ever. I’ve come to think of it as: who do I want to be on that day? Do I still want to be suffering? No. I don’t. The tricky part is that I do have a problem with depression, and I have my whole life. So it’s not just lifestyle adjustments and positive thinking – there is medication, too. I take Sam-e every day, because I must. Finally I realize that taking Sam-e serves essentially the same function (metaphorically speaking) as wearing glasses to correct a vision impairment. No shame in that anymore. (small, but important victory)

So, this morning, I got up promptly. (yay! No snooze button for me today!) Went to the gym and ran my best time yet; 3 miles in under 30 minutes. Not bad for someone who smoked for 20 years, only quitting 4 months ago (and joining the gym then, too!)

While I was running, I started to really tune in to my body. It was amazing. I felt the muscles, I imagined what they looked like. I imagined my lungs pumping air through my body, my brain all lit up with the oxygen…
I started to realize that all my years of berating my body for not be thin “enough”, for those times I was made that I wasn’t pretty “enough”, or good “enough” were all bullshit. Total, complete bullshit.

For the first time in my life, I came to recognize the incredible gift of just being alive and in a body. A body that can run and jump. A body that can learn to play the piano, that can draw and paint. A mind that can dream, and the body that can make that dream tangible. My body is utterly imperfect, I have no delusions about that. But it is MY imperfect body. And it has been my most faithful companion for 4 decades. Today I recognize the gift of being alive, of being Embodied. And the gratitude, the real, true, deep gratitude, brings me to my knees. I am very happy to be in a body, right here, right now. And my body, if it could talk would say, “Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.”

Depression is a thief.

I wrote that line, “Depression is a thief” in my journal one bright day. It was a rare day of clarity, when the sadness had lifted just enough for me to realize all the joy, love, creation, even achievements depression had stolen from me in this life.

I’ve written about my depression before, but never when I was in the grips of it. I’m in deep today, and I write this because I desperately want out of it.

It’s a hard day, emotionally. Another in a long line of difficult days – and I can’t even tell you why. It’s my day off, so to speak, I should be enjoying it. This is a day I am not expected in my shoppe, a day where I can be in the studio sun-up to sun-down if I so chose. Or I could hike all day, or clean my house, or just read a book, or run errands or see friends. But it’s afternoon now, and I haven’t so much as left my bed.

I have been thinking of my childhood a lot lately – not because I want to blame anyone, but because I am looking for the original wound. I am looking for the injury that caused this sad, skewed view of life and of myself. I am looking for the brain injury so I can heal it. But…maybe there isn’t one. Maybe my brain is broken and all I can do is try and work with it.

The way I remember it – I grew up deeply frightened, abused, neglected, misunderstood and isolated. Trauma after trauma visited me, and already being a sensitive creature, I didn’t have the tools to deal with any of it. So I isolated myself further and tended to hurt myself. I hated myself, I was ashamed of myself and I just wanted to vanish. Which I did. Not wanting to bring anyone down, not wanting to burden anyone with my nameless pain, I suffered alone, always.

Somehow I found a way out of that darkness. Part of it was an official bipolar diagnosis when I was 20. Outside of that, I had to learn to save my own life. A lot of my healing had to do with finding a creative outlet – first in writing, then singing, then filmmaking, then photography, then mixed media and looking forward, painting. There were a handful of spiritual teachers over the last twenty years who taught me meditation and mindfulness. They modeled loving behaviors and taught me shamanic journeys. My spiritual path healed me in ways I still marvel at. A lot of it had to do with the birth of my daughter, too, who still brings the greatest joy to my life.

Wow, that’s interesting. I already feel better. I already feel like I want to get up and out of this house – feel the sunshine on my face, the earth under my feet. Maybe sometimes the depression comes when there’s a kink the prevents output. Like a hose that can’t shoot water because of a kink somewhere.  Maybe depression isn’t a thief, maybe it’s just a kink.

I nearly edited all the real time shifts out. But I have decided to leave this blog as it is. A record of my downs and ups. I think maybe if we saw less polish and more authenticity, we’d be a healthier society. I know that if I stumbled upon similar words, I would relate and appreciate. So I leave it as is.

May you be well.
May you be happy.
May you be free from suffering.

~Liz, June 6, 2017

Never Not Broken

(original art by Liz Huston)

Introducing my latest piece, “Never Not Broken”

I read about this Hindu Goddess in my studies, Akhilandeshvari, who is one of the main forms of Parvati. Her name translated means, “She who is Never Not Broken”.

It was August of 2016 when I first learned of her, and She has been beckoning me to make a piece about her ever since. Her creation was a long 10 months, full of resistance and doubt. She tested me energetically, emotionally, spiritually like no other piece. She brought me to my knees and in sharing her with you today, I feel as if I have never been more vulnerable.

Looking at her with fresh eyes, I think she is what happens after The Tower. After everything falls apart, we are never not broken. But we are never not whole, either. There is a strange paradox at work here, as we often encounter when pondering our essential natures.

Today, she is telling me to be careful not to fall in love with one static version of yourself – either the idea of being whole or the idea of broken. There is a natural flow in our identities, personalities, beliefs. When we become too rigid in who we believe ourselves to be, we deny the other parts and the multitude of potentials. When we insist on being broken, we ignore the ways in which we are whole. Perhaps in embracing the paradox, or at least viewing it, we may come closer to who we truly are in our core.

#Akhilandeshvari #shewhoisnevernotbroken #flowing #identity #awareness #Parvati #lizhuston #mixedmedia #art #surrealism #divinefeminine

…blue (the color?)

In the creation process, I treat my pieces like stories. As an idea begins to form, instead of just stumbling around in it, I have learned to create a dialogue with it. I ask the idea questions (sometimes aloud) and allow the answers to come. Even if the answers are strange – I try to stay open – which isn’t always easy. Sometimes I just wish the idea would tell me its entire plot at once. Sometimes I wish it would be less poetic and more concise – the better to get straight to work on it.

But, if the idea, in its entirety, was clear from the beginning – there would be no search. And what is creation if not a search?

I have these fragments, pieces of the puzzle that will eventually become a painting or a photomontage. These are fragments that I don’t understand right away, if ever.  If the thread of the story is stronger than the visuals that come, and I tug on that thread to get closer and closer to the core of the story, magic happens. Sometimes to better understand the narrative, I’ll write ideas and character development on index cards. A process perhaps you’d expect from a writer, not a visual artist. But it’s worked for me so many times.

Today I found one of those index cards tucked away in a strange place.

I don’t remember what this was in reference to. But I started to write the word ‘important’, so clearly I wanted to remember.

Today I do not remember.
But I kinda love it.


Entry 2. Re-membering myself

IMG_8139-cI finished a new piece of art recently which was 10 months in the making. Even with such a long creation time, I am waiting until the right moment to release her into the world. It’s possible that she won’t be revealed until my Sunday tea reception on June 4 – exactly one month from now. And I’m kind of okay with that.

Something has shifted in me recently. It’s a paradox, to be sure. I have been cultivating a painful awareness of the passing of time and the preciousness of each breath while deliberately slowing down to savor life more. All this rushing around to get from A to B and back again, and for what? To be exhausted when you get there?

I used to go as fast as I could for as long as I could. I got a lot done on sheer momentum. These days I am recognizing that my body has limits and am trying to pull back before I crash into one of those limits. These days, if I run myself full tilt for too long I need at least that much time to recuperate – if not double. It wasn’t always like that – this is a new development. My health could be better it seems.

And so I slow down a bit.

I notice myself choosing my time and companions more wisely – if I choose a companion at all, for most of my time is in solitude. In companions, I opt for kindness, a depth of character, a joyful disposition, even a peaceful one. I pay more attention to how I feel about and with them, than worrying about what they think of me. Maybe that’s the blessing of arriving into your fourth decade – and if only I had learned that sooner…

Toxic people, people who take more than they give – they no longer interest me. I am no longer interested in that which will rile me up. That is to say, no thanks to the drama. I’d rather put the drama into my art instead of my life, if anywhere. Another adult shift in perception, perhaps…

The title of this new, unreleased piece is: ‘Under a Waning Moon, She Re-Members’

It began as a piece about being broken, and coming to acceptance of that broken-ness. Somewhere along the line it was less about being broken/dismembered and more about being re-membered. Remembering yourself. Putting the pieces back together, while knowing that they will never-not-be-broken. Even repaired, they will never be exactly as they once were, and there is a certain exquisiteness in that.

My personal re-membering process started to heat up over the last couple of weeks as I began to revisit old writings. There was enough distance between me-now and me-then that I could see clearly her. I dropped the judgmental attitude about what she/I should be and just recognized her for her strengths, for her bravery, for her tenacity, her loving heart, her love of words and even her many weaknesses and faults. I just noticed…

The re-membering leaked in to my visual art repertoire, too. I recently arranged all of my art into a book chronologically as a gift for my Patreon patrons. Standing back and viewing them in order like that – the growth in my art and process was fascinating to me. A personal timeline is probably more interesting to me than you, but the growth and the phases are evident I think, even if you don’t know the stories. And I realized I had it all wrong in my memory. But arranged in actual order of occurrence, I re-membered…

So with this new piece, it seems I have once again made something that reflects a deep internal process – rather than the story I thought I was telling. Wasn’t it Rumi who wrote, “he who steps inside the orchard also steps inside the orchard keeper?” That is true here, for me, even with the creation of this piece. The art allows me to step inside the orchard of myself and I re-member.


Fall in love with your own life…

There was this period of time in my life which I have been thinking of often lately. It spanned nearly an entire year beginning around August 2010, I think. I had been divorced for about a year at that point, so was on the way to emotional recovery. In my memory, it was the happiest time of my life. Except that it wasn’t. Not as I lived it. Back then, I thought it to be the worst time. My heart hurt, physically. But because of some simple actions I took, that’s not the way I remember this particular year of healing.
IMG_2329My tiny apartment in Venice was close to the ocean, situated inside a beautiful (slightly delapitated hundred year old building). My abode was not more than 200 sq ft.  That futon you see was also my bed (for seven years!). I loved this small, charming apartment, and in it, managed to create lots and lots of art and happy memories.

My neighbors were the most vibrant, brilliant people; especially the man next door (that’s his patio in the bottom right corner). He’s a brilliant artist. And there was the feisty-loyal woman who lived across the hall. There were many others, but these two were, and possibly still are, my favorite neighbors. We would spend hours talking art and philosophy – where did we ever find that kind of time? We were all self employed, working from home. I suppose we philosophized instead of commuting.

I was hurting, emotionally. Did I mention that? I was dangerously depressed but doing so in a beautiful location, serenaded by the sound of the ocean, surrounded with wonderful people, and my job was to make art from all of it. One day I decided that I needed to document my life, and so I started a blog on Facebook. Here’s the first entry, should you be interested

The thing that happened as a result of my year-ish long photoblog experiment:
I started to pay attention. To my life.
Not only did I start to pay attention, but I started to fall in love with my life. Not with how I wanted it to be, not with how it should be, or how I could best present it. I fell in love with the actual present moments. Sometimes I’d indulge in a good nostalgia – but overall I became a witness to my own experiences and as a result I fell in love with them.

I started to notice things about my environment and myself, and then, gasp!, I’d share them, openly. I didn’t take myself or my “image” (whatever that means) as seriously then. I was an artist, but there was no rep to remind me about my “brand” or message to consider. Likes were so scarce it didn’t even matter. It was just me and as long as it was honest, and didn’t hurt anyone, I shared it all.

It was a remarkable time in my life. Things changed, deeply. I changed. I fell in love with my new single life, and I made peace with it all.

And I wrote blogs like this, which is quite possibly my favorite of all my writings. And the thing I didn’t say in it? I was falling in love. That’s what that blog was all about. Learning to really love another.

My life is beautiful, it really is. And you know what? Yours is too. But we are so consumed with all the problems (and there are many) that we fail to see the beauty.
Life is short, and it’s so very very precious. I am intending, right here and now, to bring back my practice of regular blogging. Witness and sharing about my life, art, love, learning. I hope you’ll join me.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

And since I started this in the past, let me bring it current. The view from my couch. As it looks now.


My living room. May 2017