Dog Art Today

Robin Williams, Nora Ephron and Almost Wetting My Pants at The DGA Awards

 

 

My Nora Ephron Sunflowers

As longtime readers know, I used to work in Hollywood as Kevin Costner's assistant. I never met Robin Williams, but in 1991 Kevin was nominated by the Directors Guild of America as best director for Dances With Wolves. It is extremely intimate affair, and I got to attend and sit with Kevin and his small, tight-knit production company.

The ceremony is held in the Beverly Hilton Ballroom, where they hold the Golden Globes, so you can probably picture it. The difference is there are no cameras.  And the group is one of the most alpha-male gatherings in the world, with each nominated director presiding over his round table like a feudal lord, awaiting the judgement of his peers (Kevin won). It's intense.

So I remember my leeriness about Robin Williams being the MC that night. This was not a two drink minimum Comedy Store crowd. These guys aren't into "wacky."

And then he started. Or rather exploded. No rhythm or pace, but an avalanche of unrelenting comedic tessellations, so specific to the room, so inappropriate, and so funny it was shocking. The laughter turned to screams. I remember hitting my friend sitting beside me, hard. The jokes came quicker and denser and the screams turned shrieks: a communal tantric orgasm of laughter, us begging for it to stop and craving more.

And then, OOHH, there was a very real, still to this day crystal clear moment when I almost wet my pants sitting at Kevin Costner's table in the Beverly Hilton Ballroom wearing a formal black and gold beaded dress by Adrienne Vittadini.

My panic caused enough blood to rush to my head, creating some white noise to plug my ears. I focused on the table's centerpiece like a zombie, hoping this sensory safe zone would protect me long enough to get a hold of my bladder. Tears ran down my face and I squeezed the chair, praying for him to stop. Finally he did, and I managed to make it to the ladies' room to recover.

Cut to June of 2012, when Nora Ephron died. I never met her, but like every woman who came of age in the late 20th century, I counted on her like a girlfriend. I felt her death deeply, in a way I couldn't articulate with words. So I decided to plant some sunflowers in her honor. They were perennials, which means they should come back every year. I envisioned my stand of Nora Ephron sunflowers blooming, spreading and thriving in her honor.

That didn't happen.

Only three stalks came up. And those were meager.

But I saved some of those seeds and planted them again this year, with even poorer results.  Only one came up. A failure.

But since the news of Robin Williams's death on Monday, I've been thinking alot about my single sunflower. It's spectacular. The birds and the bees love it. I love it. It's going to bear hundreds of seeds I can plant again if I can get to them before all the critters who are eying them too.

Stuff like this isn't noticeable without a garden. And sadly having a garden has become a rarity. To me it feels like a privilege, as has connecting with other gardeners, farmers, and seed savers. Because I didn't know before I moved to the country, that seeds are almost immortal. And that nature is a Ponzi scheme in reverse. And what I want you to know is that one matters.

One sunflower, one seed, provides exponentially in unimaginable ways.

 

 

Saving my sunflower seeds

And this gets us to depression.

If you are struggling, is there one seed of hope you can save, or plant, or simply imagine?

If you know someone in a dark place is there one seed you can share? A phone call, a real email, not just a "like"?  Even a smile at a stranger or looking someone in the eye can make a difference.

The recipe for a successful suicide is frighteningly simple: desire to die, coupled with the means to do it. Strangely, spring and summer are the most common seasons for suicide. And it seems our culture is tipping into a full-blown epidemic of self harm. Newsweek has an excellent and disturbing article on this recent trend. And no, it's not just the Baby Boomers. Evidence indicates they are merely the tip of the ice burg.

Like many others, I suffer from depression, pain, and chronic fatigue. I can't say I've ever had suicidal thoughts. But I know what it's like to be alive and dead.

This video from the World Health Organization is the best depiction of depression I've seen.  Appropriately for this blog, it's about a dog...

 

 

I Had a Black Black Dog, His Name Was Depression

Yesterday, I picked a single sunflower to celebrate the life of Robin Williams and honor all those who are grieving his death including his beloved Pug Leonard, and his friend Koko the gorilla.

If his death has impacted you, I hope you're doing OK.

Be gentle with each other. And most of all, be gentle with yourself.

 

 

Robin Williams, July 21, 1951 – August 11, 2014

 

P.S. His wife just released a statement confirming he was suffering from early stages of Parkinson's disease.

Buddhist Monks Visit Grass Valley: Tears, Art, and a Sacred Blessing of my Dog

 

 

Tibetan Monks from Gaden Shartse Monastery Begin Their Medicine Mandala
Moira McLaughlin, Grass Valley, California, 1.18.14

Almost every year since 2000, the Sierra Friends of Tibet have sponsored the Gaden Shartse Monastery Monks' visit to our town, Grass Valley, California. The Tibetan monks, now exiled in India, stay for a few weeks and present lectures, offer blessings, visit schools, and share their traditional arts, the most thrilling of which is the construction and dissolution of a sand mandala.

Since I moved here in 2009, I've wanted to see them. The last three years, due to visa issues, they couldn't come to the States. This year, they returned, and I finally made it.

Even before their arrival, I'd been focused on their visit. As I've written before, I'm working on a series of dox-ZENs, 12 pen and ink images of Darby painted on the pages of a Zen Buddhist book. The pieces are an exploration of the Buddhist concept that the mind is an endless series of three processes: craving, acting, and discontentment.

They're also a meditation on impermanence and dealing with imperfection in the wake of the crippling grief and subsequent creative block I experienced after Darby's death. And, they're an exercise in detachment, something I struggle with as an artist.

I thought I could learn a lot from witnessing the life cycle of a sand mandala.  I thought it would inform my work somehow.  And, I kept wondering if there was a dog angle, a way to relate it Dog Art Today and share it with you. Remember, I'm working on alignment this year.

Also, you should know that the venue for the sand mandala is the chapel of a former convent and orphanage built in 1865 for orphans of gold miners. It's now a bohemian warren of artists' apartments (and a whole other blog post).

When I entered the chapel, my Catholic reflexes kicked in.  Where were the pews, the holy water, the hierarchy?  Should I genuflect?  Who's in charge?

People were milling about, taking photos, chatting, and, most alarming, walking up on the altar, underneath the stained glass window of Jesus, and putting things on a folding table -- knick knacks, photos, and statues.  Seriously, they were putting tchotchkes on the altar.

I had a hard time breathing.

Especially since the monks working on the mandala are right there.  Yes, they are cordoned off.  But, you can basically look over their shoulders and watch.

After I took a few photos, I went over to the gift shop table, where Tibetan goods such as prayer flags, pillows, and bells are for sale to benefit the monks, and chatted with a woman volunteer. 

"Um, what are the people putting on the altar?" I asked.

"Well, people bring in personal items and place them there.  And the monks will bless them," she said.

I looked confused I guess, but I was just trying to absorb it.

"For example," she said, "Last year a woman brought in the ashes of her dog..."

I burst into tears.

She stopped talking, reached out her hand, and started rubbing my shoulder. 

Now, I was verging on sobs, the "ugly cry" as Oprah calls it.  She kept rubbing my shoulder and nodding her head.  No words.

"I've...lived here for five years...for five years I've wanted to see the monks.  And I am working on an art project about my deceased dog...and I can't believe you just said that," I said.

She nodded.  Kept rubbing.

"Does this happen to people?" I wailed.   I was mortified, but no one seemed to notice. 

She nodded.

"You know," she said, "The monks are going to be here for a few weeks. Perhaps you could bring in your art and they could bless it."

Then the bells rang, and everyone found a seat for a lecture and the blessing.

One of the monks talked about sacred texts and keeping them off the floor, providing them a place of honor they deserved.  They threw rice and flower petals.  One walked around the chapel and sprinkled us with water.  They blessed us and all the sacred objects on the table.  And they performed a form of chanting called throat singing.  I thought about Darby.

There was a Q + A. 

It was beautiful. Open. Welcoming. And then, in what seemed like 20 minutes but I have no idea, it was over. 

As I gathered my bag, I noticed that the kind woman volunteer was sitting in front of me.  She stood up, looked around, and found me. 

She came over and said, "I was thinking about your dog and your art, and you don't need to bring anything in.  They were here.  They were blessed already, because you are here."

"I was thinking exactly the same thing," I said.  I smiled -- really beamed.  "Thank you," I said. "Thank you. I feel better."

I left the chapel as the monks got back to work.

If you live in Nevada County, you can see the monks from 10am - 6 pm at St. Joseph's Cultural Center, 410 Church St., Grass Valley, CA 95945.

The dissolution of the sand mandala ceremony takes place on Saturday, February 1, 2014 at 7 pm.

For more information visit Sierra Friends of Tibet.

View my dox-ZENs, still a work in progress, here.  They will be on view at the "Beasts of Burden" exhibition in Allston, Massachussettes March 13 - May 4, 2014.

Darby: Love. Redacted. Collages

 

 

Darby: Delight by Moira McLaughlin, 2013

I've been experimenting with messy.  And book arts.  And erasure poems inspired by these artists.

Today is Darby's birthday.

Darby McLaughlin
November 20, 1994 - December 3, 2011

I miss you.

 

 

Love. Redacted. by Moira McLaughlin, 2013

 

 

One Phase... by Moira McLaughlin, 2013

 

 

I Cried a Long Time by Moira McLaughlin, 2013

 

The Spell by Moira McLaughlin, 2013

 

Tyler and Darby by Sabrina

Tyler and Darby by Sabrina, 2013

Sabrina  (my niece, age five), "Want me to paint you a picture?"

Me, "Yes, paint me a picture of Tyler and Darby together."

She runs to the art studio and appears 45 minutes later.

Sabrina, "That's Darby with a halo. And Tyler's going 'agghhhh,' like he wants to play."

Me, "What are the colorful streamers in the sky?"

Sabrina, "That's the soul."

An Act of Dog: Grief Into Activism

AN ACT OF DOG from Sarah Haeberle on Vimeo.

When artist Mark Barone's dog Santina died after 20 years of companionship, Mark's partner, Marina Dervan, thought that adopting a new dog might ease the pain.  But as she started looking, she became aware of the staggering statistic that 5,500 dogs are killed in America every day.

That discovery lead the couple to launch the project An Act of Dog, a non-profit 501c3 for the sole purpose of protecting the lives of our beloved companions, by ensuring that all of America’s shelters adopt the proven and successful no-kill model.

To create permanent funding for their mission, Mark is painting 5,500 portraits of dogs who have been killed.  He paints ten dogs a day, seven days a week, and has painted over 3,500 dogs.

To contribute or find out more visit An Act of Dog.

Read more at Fast Company

The story of the renowned shelter dog Oreo and her cruel fate from Mark Barone on Vimeo