Stuck Inside the COVID-19 Blues Again

But deep inside my heart
I know I can't escape
Oh mama, can this really be the end
To be stuck inside of Mobile with the 
Memphis blues again
-Bob Dylan

My cousin called a few days ago and asked how I was doing. I’m okay I said, then paused to consider how to convey gratitude and despair at the same time. Before I could thread together a convincing sentence she said, “You’ve got the COVID blues?”  Yes, and I feel bad about it because I am so fortunate compared to most. I am on sabbatical, which means I was spared a rapid transition to online teaching and dealing with student anxiety. Living in Oakland CA in a family owned cottage, I avoided the brunt of winter and experienced a lovely spring complete with vibrant flowers, warm sunny days for long hikes in our hilly neighborhood or many nearby trails. I work on my research, delve deeply into painting, and read novels. Except when I am too distracted to do anything but stare into space or binge watch British crime shows, which accounts for days at a time.

The uncertainty. I can’t answer questions asked.
My heart is full but it’s breaking apart.

California Spring

Abstract of Alter

I live a double life. I am bursting with joy at moments, most often when painting with music blasting. Dancing. Life flowing freely though my body. An avalanche of color cascading around me. I tell stories. About Oakland, my Oak Knoll neighborhood, the flowers in bloom, Tatiana the live drawing model, my California love story, abstracts of convergence. I sleep in a room lined with paintings and a table covered with oil bars. My floor is discolored from bits of paint ground into the wood. I rub them in with my sock.
Painting is the air I breathe.

Pastels on my table                                                                Titaina

I have moments though. An ominous cloud traveling overhead rains despair on me. I part the curtains of my bubble and see people dying alone, miles of cars lined up at food banks, no money for rent, job one day and gone the next. People I love have been sick and thankfully recovered but this is not over yet. I have disturbing dreams. Sometimes I am escaping, quickly filling a bag to get ahead of someone, not sure who, chasing me down. I wake in panic--the clock says 2am or some ridiculous hour bathed in darkness. It will be hours before I fall asleep again.

Backyard Flowers

We are people in boxes, unable to connect. Boxes within boxes. What did it feel like to bump into a stranger and say pardon me, hug a friend, lace fingers together, link arms, hold out hope that love is still possible, even at my age? Any venture out of my bubble stokes fear. When I return home, I feel a tightening in my chest. I am layers removed from a touching, crowded life. In 1979 I painted a series of paintings about people in boxes in a bomb shelter studio on the kibbutz where I lived near Tel Aviv. I keep thinking about those paintings, like they were a prophecy because I feel I am living in one of those paintings. And cannot see the getting out.

Pearl and I all washed up

There are people out there doing the rescuing. It makes my vanity concerns seem trivial. I abandoned most of them anyway, dark roots and gray sprouting out of my highlighted blonde, wearing the same clothes, and actually forcing myself to wash my hair because I could easily not. I don’t remember what it’s like to stand in front of my closet and think about what shirt, skirt, pants, or dress to put on. I care about my health so I continue to work out, and when I digress and think about my weight or wrinkles I chastise myself. The absence of social gathering, ceremony, and going to work might curb the urge to reflect ourselves in the eyes of others.

Living in boxes distorts you.

With Pandy girl last summer at the beach in Maine

Getting beyond the what’s the point question each day takes some convincing. Take this blog for example. At the start of sabbatical, I had a plan to write posts about my travels, art, commentary on my teaching, research, and world affairs. Free from the daily grind I would cultivate adventures, witty conversations, insightful epiphanies, and paint at a new and deeper level than ever before. I hadn’t counted on Pandy dying followed by a global pandemic. I was leveled in a matter of weeks—no Pandy, travel, visits with friends, and even going to a store is an ordeal. And while I feel surges of excitement about my research or paintings, it’s like a heady buzz from champagne followed by a sobering drop in altitude. What’s the point won’t leave me alone.

Oak Knoll neighborhood concert with Jenn Johns

An artist friend and I were discussing making art in the time of COVID. Is it self-indulgent and insensitive to savor this unexpected excess of time to create? Perhaps partly; however, I believe it's our job as artists to document stories in the best and worst of times. We are living a historic trauma in real time and someday our art will become an important part of the collective narrative--what we saw, felt, lost, and gained. A smile forming while watching birds in flight, finding a handwritten letter in the mailbox, a live concert on a neighbor's lawn. Allowing space for sadness, despair, anger. Noticing what we were too busy to see or feel. Details of confinement spaces. The green kitchen sink, art table, pile of books, trees outside the window, cityscapes and landscapes. Across a chasm, street, or country. The lines of cars at food banks, bodies in cold storage, unrelenting grief, voices heard and overlooked. What saved or nearly sunk us.

Keith and Meiling/3462 Calandria Oak Knoll/Oakland Series

When the COVID blues grip my soul, I’ll remember blues are part of the telling. And when I struggle to answer the what's the point question—why paint, write, or yearn for a future I can no longer imagine, it will be to survive and pay tribute those who fell. We need a better world that is more than just gliding over one false bottom after the other. My job is the telling—as an artist, writer, scholar, teacher, and human. At our best we are dispensers of truth, and also hope, for without it there is no other side to fight for.   

My California Love Story before text

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Section #4 

Sabbatical in The Time of COVID-19

Your Sky is Still My Sky: West Oakland

Oakland Series

I had plans.

All these places I would go—Hawaii to see my son and swim in turquois blue water, Austin to write up research, Poland to finally visit concentration camps, Israel, Greece, and other yet to be determined destinations. I hoped to see the California desert bloom, drive to Big Sur--where I haven’t been since I was 17, road trip to the Southwest, and visit frequently with Bay Area friends. Adventures canceled. I run my hand across the smooth white surface of paper I use for painting and think this is the map for my journey now.

At work 

As an introvert who spends hours painting and writing, I was already “social distancing” in my cottage. The shelter in place order came down like a thud in the Bay Area, and soon the world slowed to a crawl. I feel people around me but I can’t see them. I subtly include them in paintings. I close my eyes and hear movement. Braches swaying in the breeze. Twigs rolling down the cement. Birds. Distant voices. Neighbor playing the piano. Construction workers next door. The hum of my own thoughts. I gaze out at the hills and see the gondola still running at the Oakland Zoo and wonder why because it feels like the entire world has shut down.

Pearl on our neighborhood walk

My days are full of painting, moving from one series to another and back again.

Oakland Series—paintings about neighborhoods and the people who live there. West Oakland was first up--I drove around taking pictures, astounded at how whitewashed the neighborhood has become. It reminded me of East Austin. I talked my way into the old 16^th Train Station, a space that holds historic memory for thousands. It was the place black folks went during the early part of the Great Migration to see who was arriving from the South. I remember picking my dad up there when Rena was a toddler. The station's faded grandeur is visible behind a chain link fence and No Trespassing signs but I got in (another story) and took pictures for a painting. 
My neighborhood, Oak Knoll, feels like Oakland did 30 years ago because black people still live here in their nice homes. People talk and smile and wave. It’s gentrifying but not as rapid as other parts of Oakland. I will be taking pictures of people in front of their house and recording their stories to create paintings. I have several neighbors on board. Dig deep a neighbor said, many of the black people in this neighborhood moved from West Oakland. Another neighbor told me he lived in five houses in West Oakland before moving here in 1974. Want to go to West Oakland and take pictures in front of those houses I asked. Sure, he said but now we must wait until it’s safe. This series could keep me busy for two years at least.

4Sale4U: West Oakland

Oakland Series

 16th Street Train Station grand hall

 16th Street Train Station grand hall

 16th Street Train Station Tower

16th Street Train Station exterior

Live model session—I sketched and later painted 11 drawings of Tatiana. Eighteen years since I stepped into a live model session. I was scared I would embarrass myself but I sat on the floor and spread out my pastels. It was rapture and felt like home. I saw my 18-year old self at San Francisco Art Institute in painting class, my teacher Bruce McGaw leaning over my shoulder saying, You know, you can let the color run through the body. All these years later I still hear those words each time I paint. Let the color run…

Tatiana

Tatiana's shoes

Abstracts—One of life’s great mysteries and terrors is painting abstract. It is a metaphor for the most unsettling and rewarding parts of life. For me it is letting go of knowing exactly what I am doing and what is going to happen. When I am in the process I feel a fluidity sweep me up, pushing me to have faith in something I do not understand and cannot control. Okay, I mutter to myself, it’s gonna be okay (really???) just stay with it, don’t give up because you are afraid it will suck, and if it sucks what does that say about me as an artist—I suck too? Doesn’t matter what came before this piece, every day, every painting is ground zero. Why is it we invest and measure our sense of self, identity, and value in transactional products and so-called success or failure. When I paint, abstracts in particular, I am trusting the process will teach, replenish, challenge, and bring new understanding. Painting abstract makes me be a better teacher. Walking a creative tightrope better positions me to help my students focus on learning versus performance, dip their toes in the unknown, ask big questions, and grapple with the fact that we cannot predict every outcome. Nor should we.

Abstract Birds of Paradise #1,2,&3

Spring

People in Hiding

Birds of Paradise and fire hydrants—I walk the neighborhood every day. Being on sabbatical I have time to ponder and pay attention to the often overlooked. I slow my walking pace and study the colors of flowers, fire hydrants, and teal paint accidentally splattered on the curb. The rust spreading on the peeling white paint of the fire hydrant and turquoise blue ring at the base. The electric orange, violet blue, red, yellow, and variation of green hues of the blooming Birds of Paradise. A symphony of colors played daily. Years ago, I painted my shoes and the shoes of my friends—sneakers, sandals, golf and dress shoes. The beauty of ordinary objects is often taken for granted and under the radar unless you slow down and open your eyes and heart.

 Neighborhood fire hydrant

Birds of Paradise #1,2, &3

Words. In books. Emails. Texts. On blank pages I need to fill about things I cannot bring myself to make important because the world is shutting down. I have several articles banging around in in my head—I conceptualize but not write them. Not now. Words aren’t helping me untangle confusion and fear. Maybe I should write letters in longhand, gliding my pen along the paper. But what would I say? How I spend my days painting until my body is sore. How I diffuse myself in quiet. How it is hard to concentrate, write, or even read when people are gasping for air and struggling to hold onto their lives. Not particularly lofty thoughts for a sabbatical. 
I read articles posted on social media about the upside of pressing pause, how the water and air are getting clearer, bread baking is back, virtual parties, dancing in the living room, and finally being able to read that stack of books. I get it but what about that book proposal I haven’t touched? I too post the most idyllic parts of my sabbatical life—new paintings rolling out, my dog, breathtaking views of San Francisco and downtown Oakland on my daily walk, the cozy cottage, brilliant sunsets, more pictures of my dog, teaching my daughter make my grandmother's Mandel Bread recipe, and selfies with smiles. We are in retreat and need contact—and hope. 
I feel the duress of others moving their classes online, home schooling, and trying to stay safe when you have to go to work (like my son). While I am happily tucked away in my cottage with a bounty of time resting at my feet to paint and write, I feel a new kind of paralysis and level of distraction that obscures the threading of words to sentences to paragraphs to articles. Perhaps I have some survivor’s guilt mixed with a large dose of gratitude that I am on sabbatical, relieved of email replies, online teaching, and helping students cope with upheaval and anxiety. Or, as COVID-19 death tolls and infections escalate, I’m having a hard time answering the question What’s the point?

Rena making my Bubi's Mandel Bread

 Daily walk in the neighborhood

View of San Francisco

Pearly and I relaxing

Confessions from a sabbatical in the time of COVID-19.

I typically don’t shower for days (3?) or wash my hair for a week. I wear the same workout clothes (I wash them). No brow wax in months, roots are getting dark. I mainly talk to my dog. I don’t always know what day it is. Having spent 4-6 weeks for many years on the island painting and living in a small room, this life is not totally unfamiliar. I actually have a knack for it. Those sojourns prepared me for sabbatical and a deep dive into painting, writing, and thinking without daily life responsibilities; however, first Pandy’s death, and then COVID-19 altered my fantasy sabbatical.

Tools of the trade

Keep your distance. Stand back. No touching. Stay home. I wonder who we will be when the danger is over. Is this more than our personal reset and chance to read, write, draw, bake, spend time with our loved ones? Will the mounting tragedy and loss transform us? Have our societal fault lines been exposed enough to seize the tragic moment to make systemic change? I want to believe this is an opportunity but greed and evil are a powerful force to reckon with and I’m not sure we have the collective energy to put up a fight. I am bolstered by communities galvanizing to help each other and individual acts of kindness, which are many. What has to happen to turn the tide in a more humane and equitable direction on a large scale? I confess I have no idea but if experiencing or witnessing senseless loss of life and economic devastation doesn’t propel us to action I am not sure what will.

Pandy girl 

I’m still with Pandy in my dreams. I wake up confused as to what life I am actually living in. Can I be in two places at once? Does loss and human vacancy reform our vantage point? There’s a surreal element permeating the atmosphere. I feel like I am peeking through a grainy lens at a reduced and constrained life. A big wide world is still out there holding itself up despite the heavy weight of sorrow. I am not a philosopher or predictor of the future. I don’t even know when I will get home to Maine, months maybe, or longer. I want to believe the books read, bread baked, paintings painted, hours spent with loved ones, letters written and stamps licked, paused moments to reflect, touching and no touching, and physical/social distancing will ultimately birth a new reality that amends deep seated wrongs, preserves the good of having slowed to a crawl, and pays tribute to those who never made it to the other side.  

Be safe and treat yourself and others well.    

      

The Quest for More: Thoughts on Scaling Back and Stepping Out of the Game

 

Pearl's spot on the deck while I write

  

It has been nearly a month since Pearl and I arrived in Oakland. The first two weeks were consumed with setting up my cottage and organizing work to be done on the main house. This included getting bids from contractors and multiple trips to Lowe’s, Home Depot, Target, Macys, Home Goods, and Ace Hardware. Shopping is not my favorite thing to do but I was determined to make this cottage home for us, and a space where I can write and paint. With nearly 400 square feet, every inch counts. I am pleased with the results. I don’t feel cramped or wish the cottage were bigger. The high ceilings help give a sense of it being bigger than it actually is; however, it is liberating to realize how little space we actually need. It is drummed into our hearts and minds early on that bigger is better, and we must achieve and obtain more--and then more again. When we don't meet every bar, it can cause us to feel inadequate or constantly compare ourselves to others who on surface seem to be more successful professionally and personally. Consequently, I have been thinking a lot about scaling back on space, stuff, and not being in the daily work grind. And I write this as I sit on my back deck with Pearl at my feet, pausing to watch the flower petals from the plum tree cascade to the ground.

Living area of cottage

 Kitchen

Wet bathroom 

Small Spaces.
I lived in a small room in Israel in the late 1970s, setting up a studio in an old bomb shelter, which I shared with many mice. During my 28 years going to the Greek island of Folegandros I lived in a room and painted on any terrace I could wrangle. I often painted on the street. One of the reasons I work on paper is it is portable and can be made to fit any size space. The freedom of having and managing less allowed time for painting and writing. Stepping out of my day to day life of work and parenting gave me the mental space to think deeply, be quiet, and feel the world around me. I painted prolifically, filled notebooks, and later wrote on a laptop for hours. I didn’t miss having more space or stuff, rather, I felt unburdened. Don’t get me wrong, I love my house in Portland, a 1930s Colonial with lots of light, space, and character; however, I also realize I could do with less if needed, or if I choose to change my lifestyle and expectations. And that’s a good thing to be reminded of.

Art space

Cozy bedroom

Time. 
It’s a mystery concept. We equate time with money, productivity, self-value--how efficient we are. We wrestle with time, try to get more if it, stop it, apportion it, and outsmart it with planners, calendars, and apps. I think about the line, If there were only more hours in the day. And then what? More work? More spinning plates orbiting our existence? Stepping out of the game with my sabbatical to work on what matters to me is something I worked hard for, yet I know it is a function of my privilege as an academic. I especially realize this because I worked 9-5 jobs for over 25 years before going back to school at age 52 for my PhD. I am fortunate to have this cottage, though I worked hard for it too; however, lots of people work hard their whole lives and face obstacles that are not a reflection of their worth, smarts, or effort. I am in a position of having time for lots of reasons, mostly my own doing but I had help and luck along the way. Once you step out of the game, you get perspective to reconsider what you can and can’t live without, and how you want to live moving forward. 

View of San Francisco on my neighborhood walk

Ambition. 
The years have changed me. As a young woman I saw a million and one things possible, with energy to match. I wanted to be an accomplished singer, actress, artist, writer, justice warrior. I wanted to soar to the top. I moved fast and furious, racing against time, certain I could beat it. I still have dreams and ambitions; however, age tempers and redefines. I see my role differently, not just climbing a ladder of my own accomplishments. As a teacher it is to inspire my students to be the leaders and pioneers of new practice and knowledge. As an artist and a writer, I want to produce and experience a meaning in my work that provokes me to take risks without worry of outcome. As a scholar, I am interested in deeper meaning and stories that reveal complexity and nuance of the human experience. As a mother, friend, and person in the world I want to cheer others on while making room for my own growth and development. I want to reman curious and willing.

 Stinson Beach Overlook

Stinson Beach Surf

Magic.
When my daughter lived in Paris, I visited for two weeks. While she was at university I walked the streets, sat at cafes, bought our food at small shops, and sat at her dining table writing chronicles of my journey, which I sent out in emails (pre-blog blogging). Her flat faced an inner courtyard. I paused writing listen to the sounds of people in their lives and trees rustle in the wind, watch the birds in flight, and ants creep along the outside window ledge. I thought about how important it was so pay attention to these small and common occurrences, which are often overlooked. Magic is everywhere if we open ourselves to the possibility. It shouldn’t take a sabbatical or some kind of pause in daily life to realize this; however, it often does. I am grateful for this time and space, for the release from work and maintaining a lovely and larger home. For waking up and going from my bed to my art table. For seeing my daughter daily, even if for a few minutes. For visiting with friends I haven't seen in years. For hours with Pearl to grieve for Pandy and adjust to life without her. All this takes time.

Pearl and I at Stinson Beach

At China Camp with Tom and my remaining CC family member Georgette

With Cally, 45 years of friendship.

Surprises.
I was sick for five days with a flu/cold, most of which I had to stay in bed. The universe has a way of stopping you in your tracks. My body hit a wall after three weeks of running around. I slept a lot. I worried about the time passing when I needed to get to work on my research and book proposal. I wanted to get out and take pictures for a series of paintings I am mulling over. I saw my friends on Facebook being productive while all I could do was cough and blow my nose between naps. Inadequacy starting creeping in, which is one of the reasons I went off Facebook for a year, to get comfortable in my own lane (as well as avoid depression from toxic politics). Mostly though, I am relieved to be out of the fray, particularly a break from replying to emails, course prep, being on in class, reading student work, and meetings. I gaze out at the green hills and the Oakland Zoo gondola from the backyard while Pearl naps in the sun. I read novels. I do little dances on my morning walk and revel in views of the San Francisco and Oakland skyline. Do I feel stripped of my identity because I am not a professor every day? Not really, I am elevating, floating with dreams and possibilities, hoping I can bring one or two to fruition, or that something completely unanticipated will unfold. Surprise me world, I’m counting on it. 

Sick in bed with a view