Inspiring Illustration

Illustration by Rui Tenreiro for The New Yorker

via @NewYorker's Twitter feed

A Map of the Introvert's Heart

Source

Artist Gemma Correll has quite accurately illustrated what truly occurs within the heart of an introvert in her illustration, “A Map of the Introvert’s Heart", which is available as an 8×9 poster through Society 6. 


It's not too soon to start dropping hints for holiday presents, is it?

This can be purchased here!

Source

Dreaming Out Loud - Camera Shy

Image from here

I used to think the whole concept of The Secret and vision boards was a bunch of new-agey hippy hooey.

I don't know if it's a WASP thing, or a family thing, or a generational thing, or even a "chick" thing, but the whole concept of
a) not appreciating what I already had/have, or
b) asking for anything, or
c) putting into words and/or putting "out there" the fears/desires/what-have-you, or
d) some combination of the above
is kind of a strange thing for me. I mean, other people have absolutely NO problem stepping out, stepping up, and practically SCREAMING to the world what they want, or think they are entitled to receive. Not me. I have to practically have a breakdown before I even admit I need help at work, for goodness sake.  (Um, please bosses? I need staff ... Please and thank you.)

Maybe it's an introvert thing?

Buckets at NRS HQ

I don't know. What I do know, however, is that I'm slowly, very very slowly, beginning to feel comfortable expressing a desire for some of the "extra," non-essential, seemingly silly things that I would like to come into my life. Instead of a "bucket" list - I've decided to Dream Out Loud. 

I know this is working. Case in point ... my need for the seashore. Voila. Day trip to the beach earlier this year, with some of the nicest friends, conditions, and lighting imaginable.

Also, months ago, in a draft of a document that is the ongoing draft of these posts, I entered a couple of notes about travel ... and out of the blue, things are starting to percolate.  But, really, NO ONE knew about things on that list - and suddenly I'm getting text messages that start with:

Do you have a current passport?

More on that later. But, given that, it's hard not to believe in this concept of Dreaming Out Loud.


So THIS post is about one of my biggest issues. Being "camera-shy" - cause *that's* what we'll call it - though it's not really about the camera.

These innocuous things ...

I have an almost pathological fear of being in front of them. Stemming from tweenhood. Body issues. Body dysmorphia. Yada yada yada. Whatever ... I know. But it's bad. Really, really bad.

On a tour of NRS HQ with J in January, we walked into the catalog shoot room. Just seeing these:

started a round of nausea, inappropriate joking, and kicked my fight or flight instinct into high gear.

Don't even get me started on Skype sessions with my family.

I loathe and despise having my picture taken, being on camera, being on film, or digitally captured. I'm trying to be better about it, because there does need to be a record that I was around. Thus the inclusion, over the last few years, of actual pictures of me on this blog and monthly sessions on Skype and FaceTime.

But ...

But ...

J & Christina's "wall"

But if we are being honest: here's the real reason for this month's dream. At my parents' house, there is the "wall." You know the wall. Most families have them like this. The one with the family portraits. The engagement shots. The wedding pictures. The school photos. The family pictures from milestones like reunions, christenings, etc.

Yeah, that wall.

I'm in a few shots of things from over the years. I had to be.

But the only portrait of me is from my college graduation. Almost 20 years ago.

Don't get me wrong. It is, and was, surprisingly, a semi-decent shot. Especially for a yearbook photo that I took with my teeth gritted behind a Mona Lisa smile.

But it's 20 years old.

Aside from my drivers license and passport photos, that's the only portrait of me that exists.

That probably should be rectified. I'm not that girl anymore. (And it wouldn't be helpful in emergency situations.)

But, you remember my little phobia of photos featuring me?

I'm trying not to pass on my issues to the next generation. The kids are not self-conscious; they are adorable and telegenic. They are also growing up with cameras pointed at them almost 24/7.

Me? I see a camera and freeze. And then unfreeze and get totally awkward. Given our society these days, I'm awkward all.the.time ... EVERYWHERE.

So my entry for this entry of Dreaming Out Loud is for help on this issue.

I need to learn how to pose for pictures: full, shoulders up, and head shots. I need to learn how not to freeze, or run away, or worry about how my chin looks. I need to learn which is my better side, how to smile so my chubby cheeks don't make my eyes disappear, or whether to grin, or smile, or what. I also need help with hair and makeup, how to accentuate what is good, bring out the hazel in my eyes and that weird grey ring, and to camouflage what's not so telegenic. How to stand so I look leaner - but please, not with that arm akimbo, leg out, pageant pose that EVERY one seems to be doing.

All so I can ultimately sit for a formal portrait that looks like me – one where I’m not self conscious, that I’m proud of, that doesn’t make me look weird, that will be “timeless” and that gets a glimpse of the glimmer of the self-confident person that is buried deep down in me somewhere.

Something so the kids remember who I was.

So there’s a photo for “the occasion,” if there’s one ever needed.

So I can go up on the wall at my parents' -- and feel like I belong there as part of my beautiful family.

Dreaming Out Loud - Sizing up Saris

Photo via here

Despite having a first generation Indian-American roommate in college for a few years, I didn't really get the desire to wear a sari until recently*. We were just too busy in college and the opportunity never really seemed to come up. I am trying to remember if S---- ever wore one on campus, for a formal or in heading off to an event, but I don't think so. Since she didn't really bring it up, and we were no where near the City to "drop by a shop" I didn't even have an inkling of a desire to try one on. It also wouldn't have been appropriate for a Halloween party, and we didn't have "dress-up balls" like that, at least not that I ever attended.

As the years have gone on, I've had the opportunity to attend a variety of functions with many of my international friends, and even then Western formal wear was the default.

More recently, however, as I've spent more time crafting, I've really begun to appreciate textiles, textures, the workmanship, and the possibilities of color and embellishment that  goes into a sari. Even if they aren't wedding saris, bedecked in more bling that one could possibly imagine, even the "everyday" saris are alive with a rainbow of colors that can't help but brighten your day.

I mean, look at these colors, combinations, and BLING:

Sri Lankan Saris via here

Photo via here

Wedding Saris via here

And this ... this color, this photo, just ... this! Can someone drape and dress me and make me feel like this? And then show me how to pose so I actually take a good photo? (Maybe that's another dream? Actually yes -- another post.)

From here

The thing about saris I've also been realizing is that they can be draped carefully to conceal a multitude of those "things" that women don't (in any way shape or form) want to show, and can also be draped carefully over layers to be modest. Do you know how hard it is with traditional modern Western formal wear to even get a dress that's not strapless or plunging, or both? Or in a size for most of the "normal" American women?

The other reverie about getting dressed up in a sari would include satisfying my urge for a tattoo - by getting a henna one instead. This kind of tattoo would wear off, eventually, not be a permanent reminder that I would probably regret as soon as the ink started to flow, and oh yeah -- not cause pain.

A foot and/or leg henna tattoo would be fun. I'm not so keen on my hands or forearms, just given that they are harder to hide as the henna wears off and, if you are like me, and you wreck your hands two seconds after you look at them. I know feet are sensitive, but it'd be worth it if they looked like this when they were done:

Photo from here

I'd ALMOST think about wearing heels if my feet looked this awesome. Almost. I don't have the heel gene (and that's ANOTHER post.)

Now that I've compiled all these pieces, I realize it's a weird multi-layered dream "ensemble" .. like a sari:
~Dress-up in pretty fabrics and colors
~Faux Tattoos
~And the component of trying on a bit of the exotic without having to travel to the far distant lands.

Not to mention the lurking underlying, real nightmare of having strangers size you up, mentally critique your foundation garments, posture, grooming, and lack of photogenicness ...

So it's a pretty normal REM cycle type dream scenario,

Once I hit Publish, it's like jerking awake to the alarm clock. You can't really get the dream back. It's out there ... and taking on a life of it's own.

I just hope it smells of night jasmine ... and not of desperation.


*I also blame The New York Times for being one of the catalysts for this. See this November 22, 2012 Article on a Jackson Heights Shop that serves South Asian Brides and other clientele and this September 2012 article on the evolving fashion of saris. I'm traditional. I'd go for the full coverage styles, thank you very much.

Photo of the Day: Smoother Sailing

Off Governor's Island, Saturday, August 25, 2012

Despite a sudden cloud bank dimming an afternoon sun, the tides have hopefully turned and it's smoother sailing ahead.

More on my afternoon of Island Hopping to Governor's soon.

I (Don't Necessarily) Got Rhythm!

Once upon a time, I was a tiny dancer.

A tiny TAP dancer.

Yes. You may laugh.

I understand the impulse. Go ahead. Get it out of your system.

I still can't quite believe it either.

I give my mother credit for making sure that we were exposed to various activities when we were kids. Library story time, church, pre-school, swim lessons, etc. Growing up where I did, there weren't that many options, but there was a dance studio not far from our house, close enough that Mom could walk us downtown, with the stroller for little brother(s), and get us out of the house in the afternoon. It was a milestone to be able to walk there on my own when I got older. But only rarely, even then.

I thought I was hot stuff. I had lessons. My church classmates did not. I had tap shoes. Tutus. Tights. It was big time stuff.

It was a right of passage to be in the dance recitals and to have class pictures taken with your group, down at the local photo studio on the Main Street strip. (Of course, at some point, my mother is going to chime in and correct me about dates and locations -- and she's welcome to.)

Some of those photos and programs were preserved by my archivist mother. And, for my sins, I am going to share them.

On the Internet. For others to see.

As part of recording my legacy for the descendants.

(And - since this is a milestone year of sharing photos, I've already crossed into murky waters about photo sharing anyway, so why stop now?)

To get through this trying entry, I'm going to default to the family practice of SHS: Sarcasm. Humor. Snark. (This is different from SHD: Sarcasm. Humor. Denial, which some still suffer from in the family. A LOT!) {Editors' note: There's also a bit of SA aka self-actualization thrown in to boot.}

Besides, there are so many things hysterically right and wrong with these photos, I have to snark.

In chronological order, mid-1970s to 1980

Me: Hey - check out this guy to my left. He thinks he's a star or something.
Him: Get me out of here.
Some of the other girls: Don't look at us. We're shy. Look how we've already perfected the tucking our chins into our shoulders to peer up coyly at the camera.
Him: Seriously. Get me out of here.
Me again - but from the future: I actually love this tutu and the polka dots, but I think I'm missing the matching ribbons for my tap shoes. *Shuffle kick down to detention!*
Next year or so...

That boy's father has surely put him on a peewee football team, having yanked him out of dance class. It was the 1970s. In Utah for cripes sake! It's fine for a year or two, but beyond that? [Oh No Sirreebob (who was Sir Ree Bob anyway?) Not my son!]

Look carefully. If this wasn't the '70s and in Utah, some of those tiny dancers would be suitable candidates for Toddlers and Tiaras. Look at the HAIR! See the sass!

Me: We're all No. 1. But my mama told me it wasn't polite to point. So why are we doing this? Also, that girl next to me? Isn't wearing the right colored tights. *Tsk-tsk*
Next year or so ... c. 1979

Uh oh. The class size is down by a third. But that's okay. Our hair volume makes up for the missing people. Blame Ms. Farrah Fawcett. We lived for the Aquanet.

Me, from the future: Why are we posing like this? This is not a pose that relates to any of our steps. Also, why is that girl on the end choking herself? (Look closely, she is!)
Seriously. It's very hard to not think some disturbing thoughts about this studio photographer. I mean --- look at the next photo.... There are so many.things.wrong.with.these.poses! Why are little girls being asked to pose like this at all?

Deep breath

Some snarking aside. Here's a serious bit folks.

I've had this last photo in my possession the longest. It's been in a frame in my parents' possession or mine, since it was taken. In recent years, it's been up on a shelf in my studio, beckoning me to gaze into the past and into how my childhood has shaped me. I've used it as an internal measure for how old I was when I started to realize things about body perception, body issues, body shapes, etc. Ages 6-8 - if actually not younger than that.

I was only 8 here.
It's my recollections -- however true or false -- that I was always first on, last out, and/or the apex of formations, because I was the "biggest." Looking back, it was more because I was one of the taller, if not tallest girls, in my classes, but I internalized this to mean fattest. Let's examine the picture. I'm not really any bigger than some of my classmates. It was just unfortunately that height and width started to phase me out of standard costumes and certain words ("biggest") started to trigger something realizations in me. Add to the fact that I wasn't as coordinated or nimble as the instructors and I thought I should be, and I started to get body conscious.

I think you can tell I'm not happy in this photo. I'm not grinning as freely as in previous pictures, nor certainly as unconsciously as I am at Audrey's house later that summer. (Check out her birthday photo on the 11th!)
Now that I think about it, it's also pretty telling that in all the 1980 summer journal entries have I not once mentioned that I missed dance lessons. I started taking piano a couple years before this time, so the activities overlapped, but I only ever mentioned piano.

We moved to CT later in the summer of 1980 and things were much more expensive on the East Coast, not to mention, not so geographically easy for me or the family to get to for lessons. Piano and new friends took over whatever hole might have been in my social and artistic calendar. But I can truthfully say, I was once a dancer! I've got the programs and photos as proof.

According to the programs saved by Mom from this period, I went from a Pink Duckling in 1975 (at 3, almost 4ish); to dancing in pieces called "Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy! It's Christmas" and "A Present for Mommy" in for the Christmas program in 1977. The Jubilation in 1978 featured me in two selections "Dancing is my Bag" and "Dynomite;" while "Time for a Happy Dance" and "Time for a Hoedown" were my ensemble contributions to the 1979 production. What turned out to be my dancing swan song, (pun intended) included the "Disco Queens," "Pom Pom Girls," and "Cane Cuties" -- works that were not part of the original Coppelia, which was what this production was based around.

Notably, my brother Jed was in two works in this 1980 production: "W.O.W.E.E." and "Ducks" and I SO would have included those pictures if I had them in my possession. I can't remember if this was the recital where he wore the sequined gold vest and gold lamé (wow, what a difference an accent will make for that word) dance pants, but I think it was. He was so cute - especially with the large rouged circles on his cheeks.

More serious stuff ahead

Now that I'm supposedly more "mature," and my nieces and nephews are out in the world, I am so conscious about how I interact with them - especially when it comes to photographs, adjectives, and positive reinforcement. It's been over 30+ years, but I still can flash to the feelings of sadness, inadequacy, and wanting to be invisible that have shaped my perception of self - even to this day, all triggered by careless words, misinterpretations, social and peer pressures, or grown-ups good-naturedly, but often misguidedly, trying to help out a little fledgling trying to find her wings. I may have just been in the wrong pond with the swans, when I should have been over with the ducks and geese, but I had to find my way there myself. As a culture we're more aware now about many of these issues and how they impact our youth, but let me tell you, we need to be conscious about them when the kids are even younger than we think. They imprint on the funniest things ... and they remember much more than we give them credit for.

As for me, I've closed the chapter completely now on my dancing past. As part of the sorting and archiving of the programs and pictures that were included in this post, I've filed it away in its proper place. I took the frame off the shelf. I've removed the photo from behind the glass. I've given away the frame. That tiny dancer is archived now with her other past selves. She was who she needed to be at that time and should not, and shall not, influence who I am now. This doesn't mean I'm going to be any more happy about being photographed, or exactly pleased with the shape of things, but the outline of who I am, past, present, and future, should be more of who I perceive myself to be on the inside - rather than the outside.

When you comment here - be kind. When you talk to a kid - be kind. Be real. Use your words carefully.

I'm intentionally posting this in the week leading up to the annual Savvy Auntie celebrations. One of the contributors on the website has written an article about how to talk to your nieces (and nephews) about body image. So appropriate.

Listen. Be Open. Be Real.

Exit Stage Right

Curtain down

Views on a Birthday

I recently spent my natal day wandering around New York with a dear friend Jane. It was blustery, frigid, and snow covered, but it was good to go

over the river

and through the woods

to spend time on Jane Street with Jane.

We ate, talked, and wandered over and up to the new High Line Park, with its view of the Hudson River and various New York landmarks.

Winter in the park Winter graffiti

If only it were warmer ... of course, then we couldn't get seats.

The park is not done yet, but this is what is up at the fence until it is,

a public art project by Valerie Hegarty.

Skylines, old and new

Lady in the Harbor

I didn't realize this was part of another public arts project, but it is ... Spencer Finch's THE RIVER THAT FLOWS BOTH WAYS and apparently "700 individually crafted panes of glass [were matched to represent] water conditions on the Hudson River over a single day."

After freezing our selves, we headed into the Chelsea Market to thaw out.

I was taking everything with a grain of ... well, grain,

while trying not to read too much into the signs.

It was a weekend for lovers, so I'm glad I managed to capture this moment. There really is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Thanks again Jane, for a perfect day!

With friends like you, I hope the next 38 years are just as fun.

Amazing Adventures of the Shushing Librarian

Happy New Year all! 'Tis I, The Shushing Librarian (S.L.). Sorry I haven't been blogging lately. I know that February is almost over, but I got a bit behind on documenting my Amazing Adventures. Between travelling, working, and undigging, the end of 2009 zoomed by and 2010 has already been a blur.

You know it's been snowing a lot on the East Coast. Here I am giving you a sense of how much snow we've been getting. I've been up to my neck in shovelling. I've been savouring the snow days, but it does put a crimp in my blogging.

To give you a recap on the Holiday season 2009, I got stacks and stacks of Christmas cards and presents,and spent lots of time waiting around in airports waiting to fly. Luckily, Auntie Nettie and I got out of JFK between snow storms. Other people were not so lucky. They were also annoyed that I was hanging out in the beverage holder that they needed for their gigantic Starbucks!While on vacation, I did a bit of window shopping. Even with my deceptively hobbit sized feet,I don't think I'll be buying these shoes. Plus, they are completely impractical for library work. I could use the heel to keep annoying patrons in line ....I spent a lot of time with partying some of my lesser known friends. Mrs. Butterworth and I spent some sweet time talking about our culinary hobbies. She brought some delectable muffins to our brunch.Lady L. finally got a substitute to work for her back in NYC so she could enjoy some forest adventures. It was a nice change of scenery for her, and she could really shrink her ego down to size ... for once.There are lots of layers to my Russian friend. She's such a doll. We don't spend nearly enough time together. Sadly, she's shy and got startled by the photographer.I only wish all my friends were as nice as Mrs. B., Lady L, and the Russian Doll. Unfortunately, "Princess" was gloating because of her new real estate purchase. She lorded it over everyone at the brunch. It was making me a bit ... crackers.Here, Tippi and I were commiserating about family, friends, and coping mechanisms when we got rudely interrupted by the photographer again. (What is with her?)I had every intention of behaving myself at this little get-together. I started off with soft drinks,but by the end ... let's just say ... I was hanging a little looser than I should have.

Oh no ... someone took a picture of me posing ala "Stick a fork in me. I'm done."Sadly, emergency services had to be called, and I got carted off. My friends tell me that the EMS workers were totally hot, but I was a hot mess. They dumped me back at my hotel to sleep it off.I had the strangest dreams ... or at least, I HOPE they were dreams. There was something about flying saucers or were they wheels?

I also vaguely remember something about scuba diving into coral reefs or being poked by cacti. There was water involved -- maybe it's because I had to float to the bathroom about 3:00 a.m.I passed out again, but I do remember this bit from my last batch of dreams. Dr. Freud would totally have something to say about my dreams about the giant bananas and the hammocks. Coming up next, how I had my eyeballs flamed out at Samurai 21.