Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 5

Happy 100, Dad - You Almost Made It!

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A few days after my mother died, a month shy of her 83rd birthday, my father and I were raking the front lawn in preparation for the gathering after her funeral. He stood up straight, leaned on his rake, and said, “Your mother accepted that she was going to die. She said she’d had a good life, and it was fine.”

I waited, certain he was going to say more. Our eyes met.

“I don’t feel that way at all!” he exclaimed. “I want to live to be 100!”

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My parents, late 1940s.

At the time he was 82, and although neither of us knew it, he would have 15 more years of life -- most of it in remarkably good health— before dying at 97, several months after his second partner. I wish he had made it to 100, but how fortunate he was to have so many good years late in life.

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My father and his second partner, Barbara, around 2022.

I know exactly what he attributed his good health to: exercise. After quitting smoking in the late 1050s, a habit acquired during his service in Europe in WWII, he became obsessed with physical fitness. He’d always been a good athlete, particularly as a baseball player and runner, and was one of the first people to take up jogging in our small town. He kept running until his knees simply wouldn’t let him. Every morning he did the Royal Canadian Air Force exercises - and kept that up until a year or so before he died. His other sport was table tennis, which he practiced incessantly, playing any challenger, and having a regular weekly game with a series of well-matched players. He competed regionally, at the state level, and many times in the national Senior Games, where he won first place in his age class, one of the years when he was over 90. He denied being competitive, but that claim was disingenuous - he never let me win at anything, even when I was little! I do agree that his drive was less about winning than about continual self-improvement. It could be difficult to be around someone like that, but I also admired it.

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Dad and me, early 1970s

He ate a lot of sugar, red meat, and had a cocktail every night, but stayed thin, and never took statins or blood pressure medications. Maybe when you exercise as much as he did, both in an athletic sense, and in building and taking care of a house and property, it mitigates the effects of diet. Certainly he had a high metabolism! On the other hand, we’ve also had people in our families who never exercised, were overweight, and took plenty of medication, and also lived well into their 90s. I think my father was lucky in his genetic makeup, courageous and strong in spirit, as well as having two women who loved him and many friends through his life. The greatest challenge he faced was surviving the war — and he had several very close calls. After that, I think he was determined to build a life and live it fully — and he did. I will always miss him, and be grateful for the qualities we shared and the things he taught me.

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Subscribed

Revisiting Old Journals - 1997

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Recently a friend and I have been discussing writers’ and artists’ journals and diaries. It prompted me to go back and read some of my own, since I’ve kept a journal of sorts through most of my life. Here are some excerpts from two months in 1997. I was 45 at the time and living in Vermont. The pencil drawing above was done today.

February 1997

A comforting thought: when I DO read someone else’s journal, esp. Merton’s, I can see that they too struggle with the whole notion of ego as it is embodied in the particular form that is journal-writing. He gets disgusted just as I do, threatens to (and did, apparently) tear out pages and throw them away, finds, at times, the whole thing embarrassing and trivial and poorly written and full of sniveling navel-staring. Yet for some reason we keep on, I think more than anything because it allows this particular type of person to organize their thoughts. I used to think that I would use the journal as the basis for other writings. I don’t know if that will ever be the case — this may be it. And possibly no one will ever think it is interesting enough to read it through. But to say it is written solely for my own eyes is deceptive. It IS intended to be read, and although I try to be as free as I can in what I express, there is always the sense that I will not be able to edit it myself; that someday it will exist as a record of me. It’s an interesting scenario, and one that I might as well ignore and just get on with the writing.

September 1997

On Labor Day we finally woke up to a day free from obligations, which we could spend reading the Sunday Times (Lady Di had just died in Paris), making some nice food, going to a movie (“Air Force One,” at the Town Hall Theater in Woodstock).

—

Someday someone will write about e-mail being the death of letters, if they haven’t already, but will they also write about it as the death of journals? I have pages and pages of e-mail correspondence from this year, but the idea of collecting it, organizing it, putting it into Word files, and printing it makes me faint with fatigue. But I am sad at the thought of losing a whole year’s worth of thoughts and reflections. I find myself wondering if the form itself, though, breeds a kind of terse, abbreviated writing which lacks depth and substance. I know I try to write well no matter what the medium — a postcard even — but how much am I leaving out by the lack of a journal discipline, and the total lack of what any literarily-minded person could call “letters”. The other day I received a long message — letter — from P.Z. about the birth and first month of his daughter’s life. It was wonderful. But I find myself missing the fat envelope, the anticipation of carrying something with real weight home from the post office and opening it up to find someone’s actual handwriting — written, no less, to ME. And I find myself somewhat ashamed and saddened to notice how quickly I have given it all up myself — and thus deprived my closest friends and family of the same pleasure.

—

October 2

At lunch yesterday Mounir said, “Isn’t it odd, how when we get old we want things to be the way they were when we were children. I woke up in the night feeling too hot, and I started thinking about how in Syria we used to sleep under just one cover — it was a padded thing — what do you call it? — right, a quilt, and under it there would be a sheet and on top of it a very thin layer of cloth. When they wanted to wash it they took it apart — it was sewn on the edges — and washed it. I can see my mother spreading it out on the floor — on the rug — with the sheet underneath and this other material on top, and then we would all help by getting around the edges and taking a big needle and sewing the layers together on the edges. Funny how you think of these things.”

October 3

Cold, grey and rainy today. By contrast, yesterday was brilliantly blue with the fall colors just starting toward their peak. In the afternoon the skies became that heavy leaden color and the trees stood out even more against it. Jonathan went skiing.

October 19

News of the world: a Vermont woman who has crusaded against land mines won the Nobel Peace Prize. Clinton is being investigated ad nauseam for his fund-raising practices. It just came out that John Kennedy negotiated a deal with Khrushchev to end the Cuban missile crisis - our missiles in Turkey for theirs in Cuba. Only seven people knew, and not one of them told. Orel Hershiser lost the first game of the World Series (we didn’t watch).

After several nights of frost, the trees have lost their brilliance and the hillsides have all become of a piece again — that muted late-fall tapestry I like so much. Walking across the bridge this afternoon I noticed the dusty blue stems of one of the swamp trees — I don’t know its name — and that they were the same color as the water and the sky. When you rub the stems they become dark maroon under the silvery blue.

The Blank Page - and some November fields

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The only way to get over the fear of the blank page is to encounter lots of them. The first page of a new sketchbook is always the hardest, but the subsequent ones get easier. I’ve started on a project of painting twenty 11 1/2” x 15” watercolor sheets. That’s five large sheets of Arches cold press, cut into quarters. I’m hoping that by the time I’ve worked through all of them, I’ll have learned some new things, and possibly had a breakthrough.

Above is a sheet that’s been soaked with water and then taped to my desk with masking tape. I run a sponge around the edges first to dry them a bit, and then apply the tape, pressing it down again and again over the succeeding minutes until it adheres well. This is to minimize the buckling of the wet paper as it dries, and the stretching also allows for the addition of wet washes or re-dampening the sheet during the painting process.

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The swatches at left are the palette I’ve chosen for this piece. Just six pigments: ultramarine blue, quinacridone burnt orange, yellow ochre, hansa yellow, sap green, buff titanium. The blue and orange mix together to form many colors, from dark blue to a range of browns and greys, perfect for the November fields and woods that are the subject of this picture.

While the paper is still wet, the first washes need to go down - but if it’s too wet, they’ll run into each other. Sometimes you want that, sometimes not. I painted the ochre fields and a background for the woods first.

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The sky had an initial blue wash, leaving the clouds white, and then as the paper dried I further defined the sky/cloud edges and added some grey shadows in the lower parts of the clouds.

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The middle of the paper is still damp here, allowing me to create softness in the hedgerow and the shadows on the field. The woods were drier when I put the dark trees in, and I went back with a sea sponge to blot out the bits of field showing through them and soften the tops of the trees.

The foreground trees couldn’t be painted until the field area was drier. I’m still learning how to judge what will happen when I put my brush onto the paper, and the exact moment when I should do that. The result depends not only on how damp the paper is, but also how wet or thick the pigment is that I’ve loaded onto the brush, and whether that particular pigment is opaque or transparent.

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The calibration between all these variables is very tricky, and only experience with specific materials, as well as years of practice, add up to judgement. On the other hand, it’s often speed and unexpected events that give watercolor its spontaneity and vibrancy, so being too careful is a detriment. That’s the Zen quality I want to aim for in this most difficult medium — having such a mastery of the technical aspects that I don’t have to think about them, and can let go. I’m not there yet, but hopeful that this project will result in progress.

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I had a hard time photographing the final painting — the image above is too contrast-y, and the colors are washed out, but when I adjusted those parameters during editing, I couldn’t achieve a good balance. This detail shows the subtlety a little better:

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In the end, there are things I like here, and things I don’t — the painting does get across the colors and mood of the rural northeast in these last days of November, but it’s too detailed. No fussing or second thoughts, though: I’m just going to move on to the next blank sheet and make another painting. This is only number 3!

It’s easy to imagine a flock of wild turkeys on these fields. Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!

Simplicity, in life and in death

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Landscape on I-88 near Nineveh, NY. Pencil drawing in sketchbook.
 

On Monday, we drove down to Binghamton, New York, to attend a family funeral the following morning. My Aunt Doris was the wife of my father’s eldest brother, the Rev. F. Porter Adams. Porter died suddenly in his early 60s, forty years ago, and yet Doris continued in good health, living independently until she was 94, and dying last week at 98. Like his father, my paternal grandfather, Porter was a Methodist minister, and so is his daughter Nancy. He and Doris were married in 1952. I remember her as a devoted mother to her children and the embodiment of the perfect minister’s wife, always at her husband’s side and involved with their church communities. After he died she was an equally caring mother and helper for her adult children and grand daughters. She was a homemaker, a good baker, cook, and seamstress, with a strong Christian faith; she was always kind to me, and I never remember her being annoyed, complaining, or saying a cross word to anyone. I realized, sitting at the service, that -- outside of these roles, which were also the subject of the sermon and the family reminiscences — I had barely known her at all.

Or then again, perhaps I had. Perhaps the way she was remembered and described at the funeral was exactly who she was, and that her choice had been just that: to live a simple, modest, selfless life, expressing her faith through devotedly caring for her family and community. It must have been terrible to lose her husband so suddenly and unexpectedly, just when he was looking forward to retirement, but somehow she managed not only to go on, but to find meaning and purpose in the many decades that remained. Not only had she been loving and faithful, she must have also been quite strong, and have had the support of good friends in addition to her children and her siblings.

The funeral was simple, straightforward, and heartfelt. Old favorite Methodist hymns played on a piano, stories shared by her family and the chaplain at the nursing home where she had lived for the past four years, a brief eulogy by the pastor of the church, a duet sung by those two women - the chaplain and pastor - followed by prayers of commendation. I was glad there was a lot of music, because it’s a tradition on my father’s side of the family. When they were young, my dad, his sister, and his two brothers had often sung as a quartet at church services led by their own father, and later on my grandmother always insisted that we all stand around the piano and sing together at family gatherings. I grew up playing those Methodist hymns at the piano while my father sang, in his clear tenor voice, and I could hear him next to me, in my mind, on Tuesday morning.

In addition to being there for my cousins, who have always supported me at such events, I’d wanted to acknowledge the passing of my aunt as the last of my parents’ generation. The eldest on both sides of my family is now...me. It’s a sobering thought, and it has come late, mainly because many of them lived very long lives.

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Landscape on I-88 near Nineveh, NY. Pencil drawing in sketchbook.

The drive back to Montreal was long -- more than six hours, not counting stops — but the weather was good and we took turns driving. The first stretch, on I-88 from Binghamton to Oneonta and then to Albany, passes through what feels like home terrain to me, and near towns where my grandparents and father, and later, friends of my own once lived: Nimmonsburg, Afton, Bainbridge, Sydney Center, Nineveh, Otego.

Jonathan drove the first stretch, and I looked out the window, taking photos of the landscape I love and making these two fast pencil sketches, while I thought about my aunt’s life, so different from my own. I also replayed the service we’d attended, fixing it in my memory. Such simplicity! It couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the grand liturgical events at the Anglican Cathedral we attend and where, as a choir member, I was part of the presentation for so many years. I had loved this very Protestant service, though, and felt comfortable in it — partly because it reminded me of where I came from, and mainly because it was utterly sincere. Anglican liturgy gives structure, dignity, solemnity, and a progression of mood and intention throughout a service; the language is poetic, and music provides meditation, participatory moments, and enhances the mood of the readings, the time of year, the occasion. The words and service used at a royal funeral are almost the same as those for the funeral of any Anglican, anywhere in the world. But there is a lot to be said for the directness, familiarity, sincerity, and simplicity of what we had just witnessed. It suited my aunt perfectly, and perhaps some of that feeling came across in the simple drawings I did later that day.

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Near Unadilla, NY. Watercolor, 5.5” x 8” in sketchbook.

Today, though, I’m back in my own home. That peaceful landscape of fields and gently rolling hills continues to call to me, so I did a quick watercolor in my sketchbook, hopefully bringing the muted colors of November to life for you. There will be more to come.

A clarification, and a positive thing to do

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Since writing my last post, I’ve heard from many people who appreciated what I had to say, and a few who thought I was excusing rather than condemning Trump voters and, in talking about the economy as a major issue that drove people’s votes, failing to strongly endorse the centrality of the critical liberation/justice movements of the past decades: anti-racism, anti-sexism, LGBTQ+ rights, the rights of immigrants and refugees, and other struggles for human dignity and freedom.

I think that anyone who voted for Donald Trump made a grievous error which will result in untold suffering for millions of people, while ripping at the heart of democracy. It was crystal clear who he was, so the voters knew, and did it anyway, for a wide variety of reasons.

I think that all of these liberation struggles MUST continue to be cornerstones of policy for those of us on the left, because caring about and protecting others, especially all those who are oppressed, is a major part of who we are.

—

Talking about policy is one thing. Strategizing about how to win elections is another. So is analyzing what went wrong, and picking up the pieces in order to move forward.

I just read a carefully-reasoned op-ed by a liberal in a major newspaper. It was followed by 2386 comments, and about 90% of the commenters were Democrats, screaming at the author and at each other. Yes, tension is high right now, and people are angry and very upset. But when the dust settles, we’re going to have to do better.

Here’s where I’m coming from: I’ve always been to the left of the Democratic Party, especially now that the Party itself has moved significantly to the right. I’ve put my body on the line and invested my heart, my skills and my time throughout my whole life for peace, for women, for LGBTQ+ rights, for greater understanding of the politics and culture of the Middle East, for community organizing and safety, for the survival and stability of the arts. In the process, I’ve gained a reputation as someone who is willing to talk to both sides, building trust and finding common ground. I have only been able to do that by starting from a point of respecting my fellow human beings, and refusing to dehumanize or demonize others even when it’s being done by one or both sides.

At the present time, that is a tall order. We are at a very distressing, destructive point in our history. Those of us on the left are shocked and reeling at the realization that so many voted the way they did, and frightened at the vindictiveness of what we see unfolding. We are correct to see an appalling rise in fascist ideology, racism, misogyny, trans-phobia and homophobia, science- and climate change denial, and an outpouring of hate against refugees and immigrants.

Some of those on the right are expectant, waiting for the litany of promises to come true, while others are clamoring at the gates of the Colosseum, ready for the blood-letting to begin, emboldened in their own prejudices and hatred by those about to control the government.

However, eventually some of us will have to try to talk to each other across this abyss. The Democratic Party has to do a lot of soul-searching and, one hopes, significant restructuring and re-strategizing. I fear that the instinct will be to move even farther to the right, but sincerely hope that doesn’t happen. Neoliberalism has failed; the Party’s establishment has to go, new leaders need to emerge. Waging and supporting endless wars must end. Democrats cannot drone-bomb villages and send arms to conflicts that have killed tens of thousands of innocent women and children, while saying they are for women’s rights at home. They cannot accuse the Republicans of corruption when they themselves are corrupt. Both parties are in bed with money and corporate power, and have done little to address the wealth inequality that is fracturing society. These hypocrisies are evident to many people.

The Democratic Party will have to put forward a platform that doesn’t betray its core values and principles, but at the same time addresses the concerns of the more moderate voters who defected to the Republican side, and particularly the disenfranchised people, many of them young, who did not vote for either candidate. We cannot win another election without them. That will require active listening, and, at the same time, quelling the unfortunate tendency of the left to fight among themselves.

Like many of you, I am quite exhausted by the past week and the news that emerges each day. After this post, I plan to take a long break from writing about politics. Let’s all try to be kind to each other and to ourselves, as we regroup and start to move forward. Let’s remember that things change. Nearly half of the country’s voters agree on the basic principles I’m speaking of here, and a majority agree on issues like abortion, gun violence, and wealth inequality. Where there is positive energy and love for one another, people can accomplish a great deal.

——
Here is a small action I took today, and that I’d like to recommend to you: Dr. Katelyn Jetelina, MPH Ph.D., is an epidemiologist who started the Substack “Your Local Epidemiologist”. With her team of public health experts, she writes “a public health newsletter that translates evidence-based information for everyday decision-making.” Through it, I’ve learned a great deal about what we know and don’t know, and the history that got us there; epidemics; potential emerging threats; vaccines; the regulatory process; controversial treatments and policies; and practical advice about making good decisions. In addition to the weekly newsletter, there are sections on Mental Health, Violence, Reproductive Health, Infectious Diseases, Public Health Emergencies, and (Mis)information. I have followed this info-letter since 2021, and I’ve just become a paid subscriber to try to help out at a critical time for public health.

In the current issue, “Body as a Shell: The RFK Jr. pick for HHS secretary” she writes:

“For many of us who have devoted our lives to public health, science, and medicine—driven by an unwavering commitment to improving the health and well-being of Americans—this strikes deep. A mix of profound sadness, anger, exhaustion, and disbelief because the playing field has now completely shifted: Instead of pushing forward toward a healthier society, it’s now about keeping us from moving backward…

…After going through the pandemic, watching rumors turn the public against the people trying to help them, it can suck the wind out of you. Right now, science communicators are exhausted and demoralized at the prospect of doing it all over again.

But we will. I will keep showing up and doing my best to help you sort the evidence from the rumors. 

The only thing we mustn’t do is say everything is now pointless and give up on what’s real and true. We’re tired, sad, and afraid. But we’re still here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Those are words we should all take to heart.

The Price of Arrogance

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4th of July parade, central New York, 2024

This has been an exhausting week. I don’t recommend having Covid at the same time as the U.S. election. However, while getting sick was unpredictable, the results of the election were not. I’m sorry to say it, but I was not at all surprised.

We’ve all had the chance to read endless articles and op-eds about why the Democrats lost. I’ll give a short list of some I thought were the most illuminating at the end of this post. The reasons for Harris’ defeat were, I think, complex, and we all need to sit down and reflect on them for a good long while before rushing into “resistance” mode. While it’s tempting to generalize and stereotype, doing so is a disservice to both sides. Instead, I’d like to write a little bit from my own experience and observations.

I grew up in the 1950s and ‘60s in a sparsely-populated rural county of New York State where most people worked in agriculture, light manufacturing, or the local service sector - schools, libraries, town government, roads, health and safety, retail and small local businesses. A majority of my classmates in the centralized public school came from family farms; others had fathers who were truck drivers, school teachers, woodworkers, welders, mechanics, factory workers, store workers. Many mothers didn’t work outside the home unless they were single parents, which was rare. My own father was a real estate broker. The town was quite self-sufficient -- you could buy almost everything you might need in its downtown, where there were grocery, clothing and hardware stores, a pharmacy and other retail, restaurants and soda fountains, a newsstand, a bakery, a feed store and grain mill, a nice hotel with a bar and dining room. At least 90% of these families were affiliated with one of the seven local Christian denominations— in a town of 1,400 — and most attended church regularly. One of the two local family doctors was Jewish, but in our town, that family was the one exception. There was one black family of migrant workers who had come up from the south to pick beans, and stayed. In spite of significant poverty in some areas, it was, and still is, a cohesive and caring community. Multi-generational family connections have always been very strong. In my class of about 135 high school graduates, about 1/4 went on to four-year and two-year colleges. Others went into the military, got local jobs, stayed on the farms, married and had children. Most remained within fairly easy driving-distance of their original families.

What has changed in fifty years? Almost all of the manufacturing jobs are gone. One exception is Chobani yogurt, which employs a number of people and has helped the struggling dairy industry. Most of the family farms have gone out, due to corporate farming, lack of government support, debt, and children who didn’t want to do the very hard work of farming for little return. Malls and online shopping have decimated the downtown, where there is little retail left. Both partners in a couple usually have to work, often at more than one job. Single-parent households are common. Many people raise children and also take care of aging parents. Healthcare is not great. People must use the limited local options, and travel to cities for specialist healthcare, which many are reluctant to do. Poverty, obesity, smoking and accidents contribute to disability, premature aging, and ill health within the society. While in my youth nobody talked about drugs other than alcohol and dope, and crime was almost non-existent, opioid addiction and drug-related crime are now significant problems. Cutbacks in state programs have taken away more jobs. And everyone is dependent on cars to get around; there’s no other transportation, so the price of gas affects everyone. When I was growing up, there was quite a lot of wealth in these towns and it showed — farms were well-kept, houses were well-maintained. Today, this area, just south of the former “Rust Belt” of manufacturing that ran along the Mohawk River Valley across the center of the state, is definitely poorer and struggling, and you can see it easily.

New York State voted for Harris, 55.8% to 44%, but that result was driven entirely by the urban regions: Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, Albany and the Hudson River Valley, New York City and its surrounding region all went to the Democrats, though by lower margins than four years ago. Every one of the rural counties in the state voted for Trump. In my former home, Chenango County, he won by 64% to 36%.

In my own case, my mother, grandmother and great-aunts all had college educations and were Democrats. My father, a veteran of WWII with a high school education, voted Republican most of the time. It was expected that I would go to college, and my parents had begun saving for that when I was born. After graduation from university I worked for New York State in an environmental education center in my hometown, but two years later I left the area to live in a well-populated part of New England where there were greater opportunities to use my education and abilities. Americans like me — urban, educated, willing to move and adapt, facile with technology, single or with small nuclear families, often living far from their parents — have benefitted from the years of Democratic presidencies. We have the luxury, given by our privilege, to think about ideological issues: justice, human rights, democracy. But, mainly, we are OK with the status quo -- we aren’t living paycheck to paycheck. Those of us who are female, or black, or brown, belong to ethnic or religious minorities, or have a non-straight sexual orientation, may be politically motivated by the oppression and prejudice we have witnessed and faced. We’re comfortable with diversity because of our life experience with many different people in colleges and universities, in the workplace, through travel, and in our urban environments.

Where I live now, in Quebec, we talk about the Two Solitudes - the very different lives and outlooks of the French and English communities, especially in the last quarter of the 20th century, which ended in the so-called “Quiet Revolution” where the French Canadians took control of the province from the wealthier English and ended the oppressive domination of their society by the Catholic Church. What we’re seeing in America is somewhat similar: two entirely different cultures who find it extremely difficult to understand each other or to communicate across a wide divide. As happened in Quebec, one of those American cultures has considered itself superior, and acted that way. Resentment by the other has been simmering for a long time, fed by condescension, neglect, growing economic inequality, and fear of losing even more to outsiders who are given advantages that are perceived to be unfair. When a toxic leader comes along who stirs that pot, stoking the resentment by encouraging racism, sexism, homophobia and xenophobia, telling lies and making promises, it can boil over to catastrophic consequences.

The only thing that’s different about me from many people of my demographic profile is that I have experience with real people on both sides, and I refuse to participate in the disrespect. It’s wrong to paint all Trump voters with the same brush; they are not all Christian far-right, women-bashing, vaccine-denying white supremacists who advocate lawlessness and the overthrow of democracy, any more than all “blue” voters are all “childless cat ladies” like me, “San Francisco communists” — or all the other demeaning epithets thrown out by Trump and Vance.

Do many of the local people back in my hometown feel angry, abandoned, and left behind? Do they feel life has been stacked unfairly against them, even though they have worked hard all their lives? Of course they do. Neo-liberalism has failed them, taking jobs and self-respect away; the American dream is slipping further and further out of reach for them and their children; and the Democratic Party, once far more popular, has failed to offer them a vision for a better future. Post-pandemic, everything costs more — I find the prices in American supermarkets shocking. At the same time, it’s clear to all that the wealthy have become wealthier, and the middle class and the poor much poorer, with diminishing hope that this will change. Worse yet, the arrogance and disrespect of the liberal establishment are keenly felt by rural working-class people. Hilary Clinton was the Senator from New York before she was Secretary of State. And she’s the one who called people like my childhood neighbors and classmates — her former constituents who she should have understood far better — “deplorables.” People don’t forget that.

I have a pretty good idea who my classmates were, and who some of them are today. I know quite a few Trump voters, some working-class, and some who are very wealthy, and some who are in-between. All are decent people. It’s unfair and inaccurate to lump 64% of the county’s population together under some liberal notion of what a Trump voter looks like and thinks. What we’re learning is that the economy and immigration are at the top of the list of their concerns; they’re fed up with the Democrats’ focus on identity politics and political correctness, and they share a basic distrust of authority and governmental institutions. They feel that America should take care of its own citizens first. Socially and religiously, they tend to be more conservative, more patriarchal, and less concerned with democracy than with economic issues, gender, and personality. Was racism a factor? Yes, but remember that we did have a Black president for eight years. Was sexism a factor? Yes, and I think it was greater than race. Even among Latino and Black men, and even among women who, as one phone solicitor reported, repeatedly said they didn’t think America “was ready for a female president” and that they “couldn’t see her in the chair.” **

When people are desperate for change, they are going to vote for the person who seems to share their frustrations, speaks to their concerns, appears to respect them, and makes promises that resonate. They are most likely to vote for the candidate who seems strongest and most likely to get things done, in spite of the distaste they may feel for their style, lies, and behavior. I noted, in particular, this comment on a Facebook thread about immigration written by a former classmate of mine: “He’s (a) loudmouth bully but he’s probably the best of the crooks.”

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Tragically, the answers to some of these problems could have come from the left. The social democracy championed by progressive Democrats like Bernie Sanders offers an alternative, populist, but compassionate and broadly-respectful agenda, based on the right to jobs and housing, a living minimum wage, universal healthcare and drug coverage, strong worker’s rights, inexpensive daycare, parental leave, fair taxation to address income inequality. It sounds…a lot like Canada. But in the U.S., such a program is labeled as “socialism” or even “communism.” As a Vermonter for thirty years — our state was the first to enact universal healthcare — I was well-acquainted with Sanders’ style and saw him in person several times; he too has the ability to listen to and speak to people from all walks of life, and he tells the truth. When he ran for the presidential nomination, he was extremely popular — but the Democratic establishment would have none of it. Instead we got Party insiders Hilary Clinton and Joe Biden. This week, Sanders issued a post-election statement accusing the Party of neglecting the working class and their concerns, and failing to address the war in Gaza. It was immediately repudiated by former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Democratic Party chair Jaime Harrison, showing how unwilling the Party has been to move in a progressive direction, even though a majority of the country has been desperate for help, and for change. Instead, they campaigned with the Cheneys.

While pointing out Trump’s unsuitability for office and the threat he poses to democracy, Harris refused to make a significant break from Biden and the Democratic Party establishment, and didn’t clearly articulate an economic plan that resonated with working class voters. Although her support for women’s rights was a major positive that crossed party lines, her refusal to acknowledge the immorality of Israel’s war in Gaza and Lebanon alienated not only Arab-Americans, but many young people, and others like myself who are appalled that their tax dollars are used to support that conflict. Her gender and race were a positive draw in some sectors, and a surprising liability in others. If America is really still not ready to elect a woman president, surely this could have been predicted through polling. In the end, many people, myself included, voted for her reluctantly, wishing we had been given a better choice.

The fact is that you cannot have a social democracy and support a massive military budget at the same time. You cannot have a social safety net for all citizens, and also have a corrupt government that’s completely enmeshed with, and beholden to, corporate, military, and special interests, including foreign ones. You cannot reward corporations and the wealthiest individuals with tax breaks, power, and influence while the citizens who keep the economy going through their labor become poorer, and increasingly feel that they have no voice. And you cannot wage endless wars that destabilize other parts of the world, or fail to deal with climate change as the global emergency which it is, and expect other countries to shoulder all the burden of refugees fleeing desperate situations.

Into that situation of growing inequality, instability, fear and discontent rode Donald Trump, with his promises and lies, his anger and threats, ready to say whatever played the best to his audience, willing to subvert the law, and democracy in the process. It makes me think of a marriage that’s been failing for years, but the husband has been so busy and satisfied with his outside life that he’s refused to see the signs. Then one day, the wife comes down the stairs with her suitcase, and tells him it’s over; she’s leaving with Mr. Right. He’s astonished: “You’re such an idiot. You can’t possibly think he’s going to take care of you or treat you better than me! He’s a liar and a cheat, and everyone knows it!”

“Yes,” she says, “maybe that’s right, but you’ve been calling me stupid and fat and lazy for years. I’ve worked hard forever. I’ve told you what we needed to do to keep our marriage going, but you wouldn’t listen. There’s barely enough to pay our bills, and you’re always giving money away to strangers I don’t even know! Now I just want to feel some hope and some pride again. He may be everything you say, but he understands me, he seems to like me, and doesn’t talk down to me. He understands why I’m so angry and scared. I just want to try it. I want things to change.”

The husband can’t believe it. “What about your commitment to marriage? I thought you believed in it.”

”That’s just a piece of paper. I want to feel better.”

”Wait and see,” he says. “You’ll come running back to me. And I’m sure we can work something out.” She walks past him, out the door, and then turns for a moment, “By the way, I’m taking the car and the keys, so you won’t be able to drive for a while.”

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In my next post, I’ll try to explain what I think we need to do as individuals, and what the Democratic Party has to do to survive.

Some articles I found worth reading:

Thomas Frank, “The Elites had it Coming”, New York Times.

Sam Wolfson, “A fatal miscalculation: masculinity researcher Richard Reeves on why Democrats lost young men.”  The Guardian .

John Harris, “From Trump’s victory, a simple inescapable message: many people despise the left,”  The Guardian

David Brooks, “Voters to Elites: Do You See Me Now?”,  The New York Times .

**Oliver Hall, “I spent hours trying to persuade US voters to choose Harris not Trump. I know why she lost.” The Guardian.

 

Maintaining One's Practice...notes on self-preservation

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Like many of us, I am very anxious about the election. Even though I live in Canada, I’m a dual citizen, the U.S. is my country of birth and where I lived for the first fifty years of my life, and it’s where members of my family have lived, worked, and tried to contribute to society for three centuries. We voted several weeks ago by absentee ballot. I care — a lot — about what happens today, and not just for the sake of America itself.

I also realize that our lives are going to continue, no matter what the outcome is. We’re going to get up on Wednesday, and Thursday, and next week, and next month, and we’re going to have to keep going and continue trying to be our best selves. Worrying and obsessing aren’t going to help. Am I sleeping well? Not particularly. But I’m trying to exert some control over what I actually can control: my attitude, and how I fill my time. Maybe what I’m going to share here will provide a break for you from all the news today, and remind you that there’s always more breadth and depth — and color! — in each of our lives, waiting to be discovered.

Yesterday, frustrated with my fragmented focus of late, I decided to act on a goal that I’ve mentioned here — to make a concerted effort to improve my watercolor paintings. The two main problems I’ve identified are the paper in my sketchbook, and the size I’ve been working in. Both limit my ability to use a full range of watercolor techniques, and to use larger brushes and a more expressive style. Years ago, before I began keeping a sketchbook as a sort of visual diary, my watercolors were quite different. I want to get back to that, and to improve from there.

The first thing I did was to cut up some sheets of beautiful, high-quality Arches cold-press paper from my paper stock. Then I did an inventory of my paints to see what I really wanted to have in my palette and what I might want to add or switch out. There’s not much change, actually, except that I want to substitute modern equivalents for the cadmiums eventually, since they’re toxic. So is cobalt blue, but I can’t do without it, so I exercise caution. Then I used the first of the watercolor sheets to paint some test swatches.

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After that, I took a hard look at the watercolor palette I’ve been using, shown at right. It’s a small, hinged-top box, 6”x 4.5”, with 24 removeable wells. It’s perfect for travel and for use with my sketchbook, but both the wells and mixing areas are quite small, which means I end up being miserly with paint. It’s just not possible to mix up a big juicy quantity of color on such a palette, and that’s a requirement for large work.

I took out my own large studio palette, as well, but decided it was old, dry, and had far too many wells. Then I remembered the big, 16” x 11” palette that I’d bought years ago for my mother and brought here when we sold the house this summer. Yes! Perfect! I cleaned it, and set it up for myself afresh. This palette also has 24 storage wells for the colors, but they hold much more, the top seals to keep the paints moist, and the mixing areas are really generous. Here it is, with a “map” of the pigments below.

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Once I had done that, I felt inspired and ready to work. Isn’t it odd how sometimes all we need to do, to clear the necessary space in our heads for a new start, is to clean and organize our physical space?

I soaked a piece of that fine paper in water, sponged it lightly, taped it to my work table, and began a painting of a view from our walk at the Morgan Arboretum a week ago. I had studied the reference photos and made some planning decisions about the colors, the shadows and light, and various technical issues I knew I’d be facing — in particular, how to show small bits of light on the leaves and twigs, falling through trees and foliage which were in deep shade - preserving or creating small light areas is a perpetual problem in watercolor. Several hours later, I had this painting in front of me:

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At 7” x 10.5”, this is still too small, but it was large enough to reinforce my instinct about using good paper. The strong, medium-toothed, Arches paper responded wonderfully, giving vibrant clear color and depth in the shadows, standing up to soaking and wet washes, and holding as much detail as necessary. It allowed for pigment removal, re-soaking and re-working, dry brush scumbling, and scratching with knives and other tools.

It was a good experiment, and a good starting place for new explorations. Best of all, I hadn’t thought about anything else while I was working on it.

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Singers need to sing, dancers need to dance, poets and writers need to write, artists need to paint and draw — and we need to do this on a regular basis, with focus and concentration. It’s so easy to let life intervene, and of course, sometimes it has to. But when we’re able to maintain a practice, day after day, week after week, then we can make progress, even if it’s in very small increments.

Our practice is a big part of what sustains us, through the good times in life and the difficult ones. And our practice is what helps us sustain others, whether through our creative work or just by being better balanced and more fulfilled human beings. Sometimes we need to jump-start our practice, and sometimes we need to do a housecleaning, or to take stock and rethink what we’re doing and how we’re doing it. That comes with this territory.

But we can’t let ourselves be de-railed by negativity or the endless opportunities for distraction, even as our hearts are filled with strong emotions from outrage to anxiety to compassion and grief. Today, I’ll work on some more art, and I’ll also play my flute for half an hour, and do some cooking. Over the weekend, I made bread for the first time in a long while. Winter’s coming. We need sustenance in all its forms.

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Covid Finally Catches Me...and Forces Me to Think.

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After 4 1/2 years of dodging the inevitable, I was still surprised to see the pale red line forming on the test kit. I had thought I was coming down with a cold, but it rapidly seemed rather worse than that, so I tested… and less than 24 hours later, my husband also tested positive. The next few days were not pleasant: a foggy blur of aches and fever, staring off into space, and deep exhaustion along with coughing and congestion. We’re coming out of the worst of it now, with the help of recent vaccinations, Paxlovid, and a lot of sleep.

It was perhaps a fitting time: our illness coinciding not only with the surreal run-up to the American election but my own re-reading of The Magic Mountain. Thomas Mann’s epic novel, published exactly 100 years ago, is about tuberculosis patients in the rarified confines of a sanitarium in the Swiss Alps during the years just before the outbreak of the first World War.

Canada is not as removed from U.S. reality in 2024 as a snowy mountaintop was from the political machinations of Europe a century ago — modern media has made sure of that -- but it does feel one long step away. I voted several weeks ago, in Vermont, but most of my Canadian friends are only able to anxiously await the results from a country they once thought they understood, but which has become increasingly incomprehensible. When they ask me, “How is it even possible that this man might win?” I hardly know where to begin.

I’ve been reflecting not only on the election and its potential ramifications, but on the pandemic which is offically “over” even though there’s a major wave of infection in my city, and perhaps in yours too. Capitalism is always ready to seize the opportunity. In the U.S., the anti-viral treatment Paxlovid stopped being free when the COVID emergency was declared over; now a five-day course of treatment costs $1400, which is covered by some but not all insurance carriers. Medicare will cover it for most seniors through the end of December 2024; after that, who knows? Here, the treatment is covered by the province of Quebec with a small co-pay if you meet certain criteria (such as being over 60) but it sounds like hardly anyone even asks for it. Vaccinations are still free in Canada, but uptake is low. Basically, people just don’t want to think about it anymore.

As I was getting sicker, feeling the virus taking hold in my body, I remembered the fear of the early days of 2020, when we had no treatments whatsoever, when we were washing and wiping everything that came into our houses, and, on the news, seeing morgues filling with bodies. I thought about the people I knew personally who succumbed to the disease. I felt immense gratitude to the medical community of researchers and providers who risked so much and worked so hard to save lives. And I wondered how long it will be before we are willing to look back and see this period of time clearly.

In Mann’s book, illness is both an everyday reality and a metaphor. The residents of the sanitarium, who have come from many different Western and Eastern European countries and from Russia, are preoccupied with their health but also with triviality and pleasure. They eat five sumptuous meals each day and live in luxurious, hotel-like surroundings, completely removed from their previous lives and responsibilities, whether career or familial. They dress up, play games, wander in the mountains, gossip endlessly, drink and smoke, and take their rest cures wrapped in fur robes. When someone’s disease progresses to “the horizontal state”, they are confined to bed and disappear from view. Meanwhile, down below, Europe edges toward war. Two of the patients, the Italian humanist Settembrini and the Jesuit champion of traditionalism and authority, Naptha, have removed themselves from the sanitarium to live out their days in the neighboring town, and there they engage in philosophical debates about the great questions facing civilization and every human being. They battle for the mind of the young, unformed protagonist, Hans Castorp, who, before starting his planned engineering career, had visited his cousin at the sanitorium and taken up, after a somewhat dubious diagnosis, permanent residence there himself.

Mann’s book shows us human beings as primarily short-sighted and self-interested, drawn to the pursuit of pleasure and superficialities, and prone to ignoring and forgetting the lessons of recent experience — but also looks at other possibilities of how to live one’s life.

He began The Magic Mountain before the war, after visiting his own wife while she was a patient in a Davos sanitarium. He put the manuscript — originally intended as a short story! - aside and finished it after the war. His book was widely read and talked about at the time, and it has a lasting reputation as one of the greatest novels ever written. Today, not only do we seem to want to forget a worldwide catastrophe as devastating as the pandemic, and pretend it doesn’t still exist, we certainly do not want to read literature about it. As democracy is eroded by far-right ideologies and billionaire fortunes, as fascism arrives on our very doorstep, and war rains down on other people’s heads, we can still easily spend much of our time scrolling, shopping, and being entertained.

It’s taken me a while to read Mann’s long book, for the second time in my life, and it struck me with the force of truth much more than when I was young; I’ve seen a lot more of life by now. If someone writes a definitive novel about our own time, I wonder how widely it will be read, and by whom — both in the coming years, and 100 years from now. However, when the overriding question of the present day is, “How did we get here?”, it seems worthwhile for each of us to grasp that moment and give it some thought, as individuals who are living through a pivotal time in history.

Glorious Golden Days

 

Without the frequent trips to central New York that we’ve been taking over the past two and a half years, J. and I knew we needed to make an effort this fall to get out of the city and experience the beauty of this extraordinary season in the Northeast. Last weekend we drove down into the Adirondacks, where we had a picnic by a remote, rushing stream, visited a friend’s house on a quiet lake, and meandered on the back roads of upstate New York and Quebec where the fall color was at its peak.

Yesterday we took a trip to the Morgan Arboretum (video above), a large managed forest preserve owned and maintained by McGill University on the western part of Montreal island. We hiked five and a half miles of leaf-covered trails through maple, beech, ash and basswood forests, and across the tall, blowing grasses of wide-open fields, returning home happy, tired, and feeling like we had been very far away from our urban existence even though the preserve is only about 20 minutes from home. In both of these places, I took reference pictures that I hope will inspire some artwork later on.

When I was a child, we’d often have snow flurries by late October, and I would have been wearing wool for weeks. Our unseasonably warm weather is clearly a result of climate change, and that distressing thought hasn’t been far from my mind, even as I’ve enjoyed this extended season. In the last few days the weather here finally turned colder. I brought the plants in from the balcony a few days ago, threw out the annuals, and did some severe pruning on almost everything that was coming inside.

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Right now it’s sunny, but a fierce wind is beating against my studio windows. The weather is more volatile and violent than I ever remember. It scares me to think about the state of even the best-managed forest, fifty years from now. I feel privileged to have lived most of my life appreciating and being comfortable in nature, and hope I haven’t ever taken it for granted. This was a major factor in my voting, and may be in yours, too, although I have no illusions about either party’s commitment to the level of significant change that’s necessary.

Those of us who care should do everything we can to raise awareness of the natural world. I feel like a relic of some long-lost era, as someone who knows the names of ferns, mosses, flowering plants and trees as well as wild living creatures, who’s comfortable in the woods and mountains, able to walk and sit quietly without disturbing the inhabitants, and knows something about foraging as well as how to grow her own food. Our remoteness from the natural world, and our blithe subjugation and overuse of it, mirrors what we’ve done to indigenous people; if there’s anything that could be called “original sin,” surely this is it.

A recommendation: Erik Rittenberry, who curates the fine Substack blog “Poetic Outlaws”, recently spent a week alone in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, where I too have spent a lot of time. I think you’ll appreciate his post about wilderness solitude, accompanied by quotes from poets and essayists from Rilke and Hesse to Snyder and Kerouac, and his own gorgeous photographs of the mountains ablaze with autumn color. He writes:

I came to the mountains not merely as an escape but as a pilgrimage of sorts—a communion with nature that helps rid the distractions of daily life. I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts, my breath, and the slow turning of the seasons.

In solitude, you find clarity. In the words of Rollo May: “In order to be open to creativity, one must have the capacity for constructive use of solitude. One must overcome the fear of being alone.”

 

Making a Print

Take a three-minute break from your day, and make a print with me...

I had thought of doing a voiceover for this short video, but then decided it would be more meditative without an audio explanation - and with all that's going on in our fraught world, we need moments when we can step back.

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Since moving to our new home two years ago and closing our studio, I haven't done any printmaking. I've missed it. Needing to make some new prints for blog subscribers was the incentive I needed to get out the printing materials and figure out how to set up in this new space. Once I had things organized and had made some test prints, I thought of making a video of the process for the blog.

The first step is rolling out the ink on a glass or plexiglass sheet, using a rubber roller known as a brayer. In rolling, you're changing the consistency and tackiness of the ink. You can't print with it as it comes out of the tube - the ink would just slide around, and it wouldn't hold any fine detail. The rolling process changes that as the ink film becomes thinner and thinner on the glass. It's difficult to describe how to know when it's ready; I sense it both by what I see in the pattern of the rolled ink as it leaves the brayer, and by the sound the brayer makes when the ink reaches the proper consistency. (In the video, the ink has alteady been rolled out for several minutes; all I'm doing is coating the brayer.)

Then we're ready to ink the carved relief block. In this case, it's a linocut - this one was an illustration for Dave Bonta's Ice Mountain: An Elegy that I illustrated and published through Phoenicia Publishing back in 2016. You have to keep the brayer absolutely flat, and make sure every little bit of carved surface has a thin coat of ink, but that you haven't smudged any onto the background, which is easy to do. A few little marks will always come through when hand-printing, and that's part of the beauty of the process. However, we don't want smudges, unclear lines and corners, or inconsistent coverage in the solid areas.

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Enlarged view of the relief block from a low angle -- the difference between the carved and uncarved surfaces is less than 1/16 of an inch.

Each relief block is different, and each has its own challenges - areas that don't want to print cleanly, tight details that tend to fill up, or large dark areas that don't print solidly unless careful attention is paid. We only learn each block's idiosyncracies by making test prints, seeing what happens, and adjusting.

A thin sheet of Japanese paper -- here I'm using a handmade sheet, made from a plant fiber called kozu -- is placed carefully on the block. I've marked pencil lines on the masking tape around the block to help me position the paper where I want it to be. Then I use my fingers to lightly stick the paper to the block. The transfer of ink begins with the use of a baren - mine is an inexpensive Japanese baren, made from a plastic disk covered with bamboo. Because it's flat, it glides evenly along the surface of the block, transferring ink to the paper.

Some people only use a baren, but I've never felt it did the job completely. So I use it to do an initial pass, and then finish the print using a wooden spoon. I've used this particular spoon for probably thirty years! It gives me the ability to change the angle and pressure, depending on what sort of area I'm working on. For a sharp, detailed section like the eye, or the ridges on the back of the frog, I use the front of the spoon and a smaller, more pointed stroke, while for a large flat solid area, I use the bowl of the spoon and a more circular stroke to get consistent coverage of ink onto the paper.

Once the print is finished, it will be barely stuck to the block, and you should be able to remove it easily. If the ink was too thick or not tacky enough, it can slide on the block and create a smudged image. If it's too thick or too runny, the details will be lost. If the ink dries too fast, as water-based inks tend to do, they may not soak into the paper well enough at all. But some oil-based inks don't dry fast enough, and you'll find an oily halo on the edges of each inked line. Each type of paper also affects the printing process, because it takes the ink differently. There are a lot of variables, and only experience can help us learn how to manage them. I now use Caligo Safe Wash inks, which are oil-based, but clean up with water.

Then the prints go on a closeline or a rack to dry - they're ready to handle in about 36-48 hours. Once I've taken them off the line, I inspect them carefully - out of this batch of 8 prints, I rejected two, as well as the initial two test prints. The accepted prints are then numbered and signed.

Although I work in many media, I sometimes think printmaking is the most satisfying. There's something both elemental and almost magical about rubbing the back of the paper and seeing the image emerge - human beings have been doing similar things ever since the first artist painted their own hand and pressed it against the wall of a cave. I also love the ability to make copies of a work of art that are neither photographic nor digital, and not mechanical in any way; each one is its own small, slightly unique entity, on a carefully-made piece of paper that feels natural and of the earth.