Fabulous Trailer!

Check out this awesome trailer from the uber-talented Maggie Stiefvater.  She made this out of paper cutouts and wrote the music, and she's a great writer, too!

Shut up, Editor Brain!

I've just spent two wonderful days at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts mini-teacher institute learning about all sorts of American art from incredibly knowledgeable people.  As with every good teacher workshop, there were several hands-on activities that we could take back to our students.  Now, I've gotta tell you, I'd rather just have a lecture than get involved in a "turn to your neighbor and discuss" type of thing.  But VMFA and their awesome education director always do a great job with unusual activities that work in a variety of different curriculums, so I try to keep an open mind.

Today, though, they wanted me to paint a landscape!  First, we had a brilliant lecture and slideshow on American Landscape Photography.  High brow professional sorts of things were discussed such as composition, the golden mean, how the artist's choices influence the work, and where the artist is in the work.  

"Now you're going to use what you learned and go outside and paint your own landscape!" said the cheerful instructor.  She started explaining about paint and the paint boards and how we might want to start with a sepia wash and choose our land horizon.

The woman next to me looked at me with wide eyes.  "I teach special ed," she whispered.  

"English," I whispered back.  We nodded our heads in commiseration and horror.

"Those of you who aren't painters are so lucky!" enthused the instructor.  "You don't have anything to worry about!"  

Somehow this wasn't comforting.  My stomach knotted itself smaller.  I could hear the "editor brain" start to muster the list of reasons this activity was going to be BAD.  The list went something like this: I can't paint; the last time I took art was in high school; I can't do perspective; I don't think I was listening during the slide show; I don't know what my point of view for a painting will be; I can't paint; what if it's horrible; it will be horrible; I can't paint.

I made no great rush to get to the head of the line for paints.  In fact, it seemed that those of us lingering toward the end had many of the same reservations.  One very art-oriented woman gave us bits and pieces of advice.  "You'll want to sketch in the things in the background first." (Huh, wouldn't have thought of that--probably would have just picked the closest thing to me and had at it.)  "Get a round brush and a flat brush."  (I still don't know why.)  "You don't need too much paint."  (Well that's for sure.)  The getting the paint process was sort of fun.  All those colors.  For a little bit I forgot about the fact that I'd actually be using them.

Out we went.  Helpful, happy interns gave us cups of water and paper towels.  The outside was huge.  And bright.  And full of things that could go in a painting.  And full of diligent people finding spots and getting to work.

"Now I'm all nervous again," I said aloud, though nervous didn't quite cover the squished stomach and noisy brain.

"Oh just have fun!" said the happy person.

Fun?  I wandered down the walk.  How was this going to be fun?

I found a building I liked.  And some trees.  And a spot in the shade I could sit in.  I sat down.  I wondered if that sort of yellowish brown would make a sepia wash if I added some water to it.  Editor brain yammered on about my deficiencies.  Look, I told it, there is not one single person in this entire world who cares if I screw this up.  I felt a little better.  I tentatively put some lines in.  The instructor came by.  I resisted the urge to tell her she couldn't see.

"Oh, look at you!" she said.  "You're doing great!"

"I am?"

"You've got it sketched in, your perspective is right, and even though you've got something in the center, you've balanced it out!"

(Huh.  Things in center=bad?)

The perspective wasn't really quite right, and I didn't have enough white, and I had completely lost the ability (which I swear I had in high school) of mixing colors.  I told editor brain that I didn't care if the roof was pink, I was just giving this a try, and I also wanted to try the shadows and the trees, and I wasn't going to get to that if it didn't shut up about the pink roof.  Eventually editor brain calmed down and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation of the people nearby.

Before I knew it, it was time to go in, and I didn't want to.  I wanted to stay and paint more.

Going in, editor brain began fidgeting.  It didn't want me to put the painting out and share. It had all sorts of reasons.  I put it out anyway and looked around.

Every painting was different.  Some were very painterly, and some weren't.  Some looked unfinished, and some looked overdone.  But we all tried.  No one hid in the restroom (the thought occurred to me), or simply refused to participate, or painted a few lines and quit.   I know from other comments I overheard that I wasn't the only "nervous" one, and even some of the painterly people weren't entirely comfortable.  But we all managed to shut the editor brain up long enough to give it a go.

Lego Lunacy

There are a lot of Legos in my house.  Elder Son (let's call him Batman) falls in love with complicated, multi-hundred-piece sets, receives said sets for gifts, puts them together, plays with them for a week straight, and then deconstructs them so that they become part of the great Lego continuum, which can turn up anywhere from the dryer to my bowl of cereal. 

Younger Son (let's call him Robin) wants to be exactly like Batman in every way (except, much like the "real" Robin, with three times as much energy and endless not-particularly-comprehensible commentary).  Needless to say, Robin would like to amass just as much Lego as Batman currently has, and if the Lego pieces could all be exactly identical, that would be even better.

Batman recently acquired Lego set 8016, the Star Wars Hyena Droid Bomber, complete with three droid mini-figures.  (Let's leave for another blog a discussion of why, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, they have something named after hyenas.)  Robin immediately became the temporary owner of one of the mini-droids, resulting in the following conversation. I am saving it for documentation in case I need therapy or prescription drugs in the near future.

Squabbling along the lines of "I did not!"  "You did too!" gradually wears down my attempts to ignore it, and I summon Batman and Robin to my presence.

"What's going on?"

"Robin took my droid."

"I did not!"

"You did too!"

"I did not!  This is my droid!"

"It is not!  Mom!  I put my droid down in a very particular place, and Robin took it!"

"I did not!"

"Wait," I say.  "Wait."  I repeat this several more times until the "did not" "did too" chorus again subsides.  "Isn't there another droid?"

"Yes, but that one's mine, and he took it!"

"Did not!"

"Hang on, hang on," I say.  "I mean isn't there another droid.  In the house?  Right now?"

"Yes, but--"

(me, interrupting) "So go find that one, and then you'll both have one."

"No," Batman explains in exasperation, "we have two, but Robin has mine.  I put it down in a very particular spot, and Robin took it."

"Wait," I say.  "You have two droids?"

"Yes."  They both open their hands to reveal two seemingly-identical little, brown droid guys.  

"But Robin has mine."

"Is there some difference between them?" I ask, waiting to be told that the blaster or jet packs or whatever are entirely unique.

"No."

"No?" I ask.  "No??"  They shake their heads.  "Give them to me."  I juggle the droid figures around in my open palms as they watch.  "Here."  I give one droid to Batman and one completely and totally identical droid to Robin.  "You're both nutcases," I tell them.  They laugh and run off to lose the droid guys in a Lego pile not so far away.