Archive for the ‘My Mom’ Category

My Mom is a Rock   Leave a comment

My mothers only grand-daughter made a card for her when she was quite young that sums her up well, “Grandma, you are a rock.”


It’s the process   Leave a comment

Today, I worked on the show I am curating, “Maps Only” 2012 in San Francisco.

I began talking with 3 of the 11 artists about their Maps; what medium, how big, their idea?  I’m interested in the process and especially interested in the group process.

One of the artists, an artist I know very well, almost quit before beginning.  Artists can be this way; I’ve been this way.  I tried to be clear and matter-of-fact.  I really want her to create a map, she’s quirky, intelligent and a talented user of bright colors. She would be patient with me. I will be patient with her. She agreed to let me include her in a group e-mail, but said, “I probably won’t talk with any of the other artists over the web.”  I hope she will, but of course, this is her process and she’s still part of the group.

Another of the artists has been working on a map for 10 years.  When I invited him, I had no idea. This map will not be ready to show he informed me, so he’s a bit more relaxed and is looking forward to making a map, possibly a fantasy map.  I wonder what this will look like, what fantasy map he will imagine?

The last of the three artists I spoke with is going on vacation. In one sentence he said, I won’t work on it while I am gone, but I might work on it, you never know, he said, I’ll just see what happens.  He was happy as he pondered his map.  I was happy pondering his map.

I even worked on my Ansel Adams Wilderness Topographical Map.  I can see it coming together.  It’s the process.

“Timeliness”   4 comments

I was raised to be timely. There was always enough change in the glove compartment of the car to call before I was late.  Calling was a drag, so I was mostly on time. I don’t have a car now, so I can’t be anywhere quickly, even so I am usually on time or I call.  It must be the training.

Now that my time is not my own and I have to be places, to meet others, about others, the timeliness training has taught me something.  It has  not taught be to be on time for these meetings, far from it, but things seem to have worked out anyway.

Some of my friends have cars, so I can borrow one if I really need. I mostly don’t borrow them, I mostly don’t need them.  I have been borrowing a car often, lately or asking for a ride from someone going where I am going or taking the more than >1 bus, to my far but still in the City destination.

The bus is the least hectic and my favorite.  I walk to the stop, get on, there is almost always some kind of visual feast, I meander in my mind and then I am there. The bus is great when you have the time.

Borrowing a car is a little more complicated, I must remember the garage code,  feel a little bit of Self  Imposed beholden-ness, fill the tank up, drive and park.

Getting a ride is the most challenging and yet for me has been the most freeing. I must ask for the ride, folks are feeling sorry for me right now,  so getting the ride is easy, but then I must wait.

Yesterday, my very nice, lovely young woman ride was late and she was still a 1/2 hour away when she called.  I thought about her lateness for a minute, trying to not let my timeliness training get in the way of Thinking and I realized that “my time was not my own!” and that this was just another way to realize it.  I was free!  I could not go to the appointment, because I could not ditch my next appointment. I had just re-scheduled and it was much too late to cancel, I still need to eat, so I didn’t go to the appointment scheduled for me, not by me. “My time is not my own”.

Posted September 1, 2011 by sarahdorrance in Art, My Mom, Thinking

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is writing doing nothing?   1 comment

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was in 7th grade, and then much later, a mosaic artist.  I went through many artful  incarnations, but always I’ve liked making or ‘riggging’ things, now they call it re-purposing . I like the physical part of my art, the labor. This nagging question of ‘is writing doing nothing’ is related to not being physical.

I’ve been wondering if now that life is happening to me and my time is not my own, and I don’t feel up to actually building my Ansel Adams Wilderness, all colors of white, topographical, mosaic map; I’m wondering if  writing about my Ansel Adams Wilderness, all colors of white, topographical , mosaic map, art? Or, is writing doing nothing?


“don’t take this chair”   Leave a comment

On a walk with my dog and it’s gone, The Purple Chair is gone!

“don’t take this chair”   Leave a comment

There is so much I don’t want to write about right now, but this is still a happening story and I can see it from my front room window.
On the walk my dog and I went on, that I didn’t want to go on? Some of you readers may remember this?  I saw this purple chair sitting on the sidewalk, it was there for a while. Who doesn’t need free chairs?  and I could see that there was a note on it, maybe a free sign, its not that far from my house, so I walked over.

The note said, ‘don’t take this chair, it is Really not free” or something to that effect, so I didn’t take the chair, it was in Spanish also. I thought,  someone must have taken a chair or something from them, the taker not realizing it was to be packed or loaned or, you get it, so they put the note on this purple chair.
Later in the week the purple chair and the note was still there. No one had taken it.  Kind of like the front yard garden and how I have to tell people to Take the food.
This week the chair was still there and I was walking to my home with my people, my friends. I told them my purple chair theory, an experiment, and such a great idea, a way for many of us to interact without talking.  I love it!

We crossed the street to read the sign, which was weathering well, still readable. My friend who’s Birth Day it was and who is bi-lingual, said she thought maybe we’d be in a film or whoever took the chair might be in a film.  I hope not! It was a good chair, a great purple color, and it’s still there today and her Birth Day was yesterday.

My neighborhood is Urban and for over a week the purple chair and the note have not been taken.  I love my neighborhood, but I hope someone takes the chair soon,  before it is ruined by the elements.  “It’s still a good chair”.

walking the dog   Leave a comment

I haven’t written in a few days because my elderly mother called me screaming early in the morning; she had broken her ankle in 3 places and had to be transported to the hospital. I am still tired and she is still in the hospital.

This story though is not about that, that story hasn’t ended.

This story is about ‘not’ wanting to walk my dog, because life is happening to me. This story is about walking my dog so she would be happy to be my dog and about having so many good experiences in my neighborhood, just because I walked my fabulous little dog.

I decided to water my urban front yard to put off walking my dog who waited patiently for me while I watered plants that really did need to be watered.  And as I was watering  I found someone had left seed, amaranth and some other seed, maybe watermelon. It seems late for watermelon, and then I think, “maybe it was for the birds?”  No, I think,  someone left it for me, I’m sure they left it for me. I was so happy to see it; how could it not be for me? There it was next to the bench in a cute neat little pile. I wonder if my cool friend left them for me. This friend would not know my mom was injured and she did leave me a green egg, buried in my front yard garden just the other week. Could have left the seed for me also?  Either way I am happy, I hosed them right into the soil around the tree.  I look forward to seeing what grows up.

I then, instead of walking on with my dog, visited with the neighbor friend that I share the front yard garden with. She offered me a ride to see my mother anytime after taking her daughter to school and before picking her up. She’s sweet, she likes my mom and like hers. I asked her if she would also help out with my dog and of course she would let her in or out and take her for walks if needed.

Before I had even left the front of my house a woman in the neighborhood walked by and said to me, “the roses are beautiful”.  As she was talking she casually bent down and picked a tomato from our garden, popping it into her mouth she walked on.  How much better can it get, sharing food with people you know only by sight?

These moments remind me that I am not alone, and that others are having their lives and that though none of us ‘know’ what goes on with the ‘Others’, we are not alone.