Evolution of a Dolphin Painting

Despite being a movie buff, I have never seen, "The Cove," and that is by my choice.  I think I would find the imagery too disturbing. I've been enamored of dolphins since I was about 12 years old, and had recurring dreams wherein I am swimming with them amid shafts of sunlight that filter down through the water. I admit to romanticizing them somewhat just like everyone else does, although Karen Pryor's operant conditioning training methods have changed my life.

I'm currently recovering from an artistic slump, and what better way to do it than turn to my lifelong inspiration.  Here's the progress of my newest painting, in photographs.  This is 9x12" acrylic.

 

Laying the foundation for the painting; blues and purples.

 

Adding some darker areas for detail.

 

Now the contrast -- yellows and oranges to brighten the image.

 

Final highlights

For Those Who Try to Shut Me Up

It's a little bit ironic that yesterday, of all days, I got the phone call. The whole world was reeling from the sight  of three hooded terrorists, screaming about Muhammed, their spattered gunfire echoing through the streets of Paris.  How much nerve does it take to run into an office building and gun down a bunch of artists?  I am sure I was not the only one visualizing a "bullseye" on the heads of those criminals while I watched that video.

I have a bit more of an insider perspective  than most, being an artist myself and having worked with a bunch of animators and cartoonists.  Cartoonists, for the most part, are just dorks.  They are the most innocuous people you will find.  Some of them come from horrific dysfunctional backgrounds, and so they draw happy pictures in order to simplify  the world in their minds eye.  They are rarely violent, often internalizing  their anger, letting it come out on the page.  They are often wistful and usually kind.

My heart aches for the families of these victims, who, as far as I can tell, have been nothing short of heroic in their response.  I think it was the editor's daughter who posted a photo of his empty desk; a poignant reminder of his simple occupation...  "Armed" with pencils.

So yesterday, as I was enraged like the rest of the world over the murders of the Charlie Hebdo artists, the phone rang. It was my sister, Amanda. 

"Hey girl!" she used her customary greeting.  "I've got something to tell  you.  I'm going into the bedroom so they don't overhear me."

I could hear her thunking gait and then the door click as she closed it.  "There now.  Did you know that (R3) is threatening to file a lawsuit over our book?"

She was talking about THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN, our story about how Amanda, who  has Down syndrome, was abused by some of our family members and pulled into a guardianship dispute right after our dad's death.

The irony of the timing, of course, was not lost on me.

"How do you know this?"

"She sent an email.  She threatened to sue me, my guardian, and you."

"Don't worry.  Our lawyer said she's got nothing."


"I thought so.  But my guardian is very upset about it."

"Tell him not to worry.  We will handle it.  Did you see your face on the front page of the newspaper?"

"YES!" she squealed.

"YOU'RE FAMOUS!" I roared.

She laughed and we shouted together about this wonderful experience of being co-authors, partners, and having our own book. 

"We tell it like it is!" she added.

"Yes we do!  And hopefully it will help someone else."

"I hope so, too," she said.

After our talk, I gave my attorney a heads-up about the lawsuit threats.  We know there is no case.

I was irritated, though not surprised, that Amanda is having to go through this after all she has already endured.  Terrorism, I realized, comes in many forms.  The narcissistic need for control surpasses all rational thought and will usurp an otherwise peaceful existence.  The answer, of course, is in changing nothing.  Stay the course.  Keep writing, or drawing, or whatever it is you do.  Film is forever.  Pictures are forever.  Stories are forever. 

If you don't want to be remembered as a jerk, then don't be one.  Terrorism will be exposed for what it is, even when the victims are artists, or animals or people with disabilities.   Expression is life.  As Amanda said, "We tell it like it is."

Swimming Down Syndrome

      Let's face it: the Special Olympics has been a boon to the fitness regimen for many disabled folks who would never otherwise get out of the house.  Amanda is no exception.  Over the years, getting her to exercise has taken a considerable amount of coaxing, begging, and strategic thinking on my part.

     But one thing she loves to do is swim.  She actually won several gold medals while competing in Mt Pleasant years ago.  She didn't always fancy the beach, but if given an opportunity, she would rarely turn down a chance to go in a pool.  So when I found out an excerpt from our story, THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN, would be featured in the BookDaily "Health and Fitness" ezine, this chapter immediately sprang to mind:

      Physical activity was demanding for Amanda.  She didn’t want to take walks with me.  I figured if I weighed over 200 pounds, with bad knees and tiny, flat feet, I wouldn’t want to walk, either.  But she could swim.  Our cousin Denny had a pool at his hotel, and so as summer heated up, that became our ritual.  Best of all, on days when she went swimming, I didn’t make her take a shower.  If the chlorine was heavy, she could just hose off at the pool.  She didn’t have any hair to wash.  I did insist that she shave her armpits.  When I wasn’t around, she had a tendency to let the hair grow.  That was easy enough for me to fix.  If she happened to lift her arm for any reason, exposing armpit hair, I would make the motion of pulling the cord on a lawn mower.           

“Rrrrummm…  Rummm rum rum rum!” I would grab the invisible handle and jounce like I was pushing it.

            She glared at me.  “Knock it off!” 

            But it always worked.  She would shave her armpits.

            She hated the whole shower effort.  “It’s always the same old thing.”

            On our first swim day, she came out of the bathroom wearing her shorts and tank top over a leopard print one-piece. 

            “I had to wrestle my swimming suit to get it on,” she said, sitting down and reaching for her shoes.

            “Okay, I’ll be ready in a sec.” I went in the bathroom and glanced into the bathtub.  On the curve of rusty porcelain near the drain there was a creature about the size of a quarter, with eight tentacles.  I believe the scientific name for it is Lupus Arachnis Horribilis. Being an animal lover, I had no fear of spiders, regardless of their size, but this was a good opportunity to stir things up with Amanda.

The lens case is for size comparison, although I later claimed I had, "dropped my lens case when I realized the brown blob wasn't my false eyelashes!"

 

            "Amanda!" I screeched. "You've got to see this!"

            She must have known what I was yelling about, because she came hobbling in armed with a fly swatter. "I'm gonna swoosh him.”

            I jumped up and down screaming while she swooshed and Lupus ran down the drain. She turned on the faucet. "It's okay Nancy. He's gone. Pull yourself together."

            As we got in the car, I said, “Jeesh, after all that I am gonna need a cola.  Let’s head over to the Northwood.  You can tell Celia’s mom about your conquest.”

            “Celia's mother doesn't own the restaurant anymore,” Amanda said. 

            “She doesn’t?”

            “No.  She said she misses working there.”

            “Who owns it now?”

            “The other owner.”

            We drove on down through the woods to Pins restaurant, turning down the cracked ribbon of pavement to the resort area where the big wooden fence surrounded Denny’s pool.  Til was panting in the back seat.  He jumped out when I opened the door and ran into the woods with his nose down, his plumy white tail waving.  “Hurry up!” I yelled. “Go potty! Hurry up!”

            “Jeesh. Pressure, Nancy. Pressure!”  Amanda said.

            “Well, you don’t want any accidents in the pool, do you?” 

            “Don’t be gross!”

            Til performed his duty and came blasting back, and we walked up to the big, creaky gate and stepped inside.  As I had expected, we were the only ones there.  As Amanda rolled and played in the water, tossing a ball for the elated dog, I watched from the poolside. 

            “Here,” I took a couple of quarters from my pocket and dropped them in, watching as they glinted and flipped to the bottom.  “See if you can find these!”

            She dove, slippery as a seal, her little flat feet pointing and waving up at the wrinkled water’s surface, her hand patting the pool floor all around the quarters.  She was so buoyant that it was taking hard scissor kicks to keep her inverted.  I was thinking I could probably get some muscle tone on her just by dropping things into the pool a few days a week.

            Finally, she came up gasping for breath. 

            “You missed!” I shouted.

            “I know,” she said.

            “Can’t you open your eyes?”

            “I don’t like getting them in the chlorine.  I don’t have my goggles.  Hey, you should come in with me!”

            “Not gonna happen.  You know I don’t swim.”

            “Chicken.  Bawk, bawk buk buk.”

            “That’s right.  And if the ferry ever sinks, you’re under contract to save my sorry cement block ass.”

            “It’s a deal.”  She dove again, patting the bottom and this time I saw her fist close over a quarter.  She surfaced.  “I got it!”

            “Waytago!”

            She swam to the poolside, putting the quarter up by my foot.  “Here’s your change, Nancy.”

            As I bent over to pick it up, I was hit in the side of the face and head with a blast of cold water.  “Hey!”

            I looked up and caught a glimpse of the squirt gun she was aiming at me, just before another shot of water hit me right between the eyes.  “You’re gonna get wet, one way or the other, you rat!” She was roaring laughter, dousing me with rapid bursts of cold spray as I screamed and ducked away.

            “How did you…” I shouted, and then choked as she caught me with another shot square in the mouth.  I had never heard her laugh so hard. 

            “Let me introduce my secret weapon, Nancy!” she shouted.  She was floating upright, bobbing gently in the water like a buoy, her bald head gleaming in the bright sun, pointing the lime green plastic gun at me.

 

Excerpt from, THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN: A True Story of Two Sisters

By Nancy J. Bailey and Amanda Bailey

Copyright 2014

How To Say Goodbye - With Cats

My best friend is dying. We met in 1989, and became daily companions. But after 8 years I had moved away, and we had seen each other sporadically thereafter.  Now that the cancer is taking its toll, of course, I wish I had put more energy into calling her.  Whenever I did call, she would fire questions at me.  How did my gallery show go?  What is happening with the baby horse?  How is the writing coming? 

 

I am learning the sad fact that the current trend is to resent this type of inquisition.  It's been labeled, "Interviewing." This stems from the habit of questioning for information to use as an arsenal.

 

But we were never like that.  The quick exchange of information is a treasured thing.  My friend Rita is an excellent listener, with a razor-sharp mind and ravenous curiosity.  She is a great lover of animals, especially cats.  She had established a cat rescue in Ann Arbor, called Mosaic Feline Refuge, which she kept open for 22 years.  They finally closed this spring.  They couldn't keep up the time, energy, and the vast expense of caring for and surgically altering and then homing hoards of roaming house cats and kittens.  "I just felt like I never did enough," she told me.

 

"That's because you see the bigger picture," I said.  "But what are the numbers?  I mean, how many cats did you save?"

 

"I don't know.  I'm sure they're logged somewhere."  She sighed, a futile huff acknowledging the vastness of an unending problem.  I thought the numbers might make her feel better.  After all, one saved cat can prevent literally thousands of unwanted kittens.  And Rita had saved, certainly, thousands of cats.

 

I had called her a week before Christmas, because I needed a name for my own rescued kitty.  Rita was the first one that came to mind.  She is endlessly creative and names all her cats and dogs after food.  Over the years she's had some real classics -- Toast and Trifle, Lamb Chop and Wafer.  But her husband returned the call and told my voicemail that she was in hospice and hopefully coming home in a few days.  He didn't know if she would want company.

 

I called back, thinking I would be able to maintain composure, and then left a sobbing mess of a message on his answering machine.  I didn't know what to say.  I stammered that I wanted a name for my kitty.  "He likes his belly rubbed!"  I wailed.

 

I was able to finally talk to Rita yesterday.  She was home.  "Chuckles," she said immediately.  "You know, those candies that come in all the colors?  They stick -- and your guy has stuck."

 

The moment she said it, I knew, of course, that this was indeed his name.  I had found this silly ornament on Christmas Eve, a tiny handmade kitty that looked like my kitty, but it was wearing a clown hat.  I brought it home and put it on the window sill next to the wooden chicken.  Rita, with her uncanny insight, had called out the name "Chuckles", and that ornament says it.  Chuckles.  Chuckie.  Chuck Chuck.  A final gift from someone who has already given so much.

 

 

When she answered the phone, she sounded down, but the more we talked, the more she seemed like her old self.  We laughed and talked about cats and dogs, and Clifford and Trudy, and their new little brother.  She asked if I was riding him yet.  "No!" I said.  "I don't bounce like I used to!"

 

"I understand that," she said.

 

She asked about my new book, THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN.  "Any way you can send it to me?"

 

She is a voracious reader.  She has devoured everything I've ever written.  She said, "Everyone's been sending me books!  You wouldn't believe the stacks of them around here.  I've been telling people it's the only thing I can still do."

 

I was so anxious for her to read this, because she knows Amanda, and she has her own history with family dysfunction.  Her opinion is so important.  I'm working on getting a copy to her ASAP.  I know at this time in life, every day is precious.  While we talked, I kept wondering if this would be our last conversation.

 

I wish she wasn't going.  But at least, this time, I had a chance to tell her she was dear to me; she was like a sister.  No, better than a sister.  She just laughed and said, "Yeah, you're family."

 

Through the whole conversation I worried that she might be getting tired.  But she rattled on and on, laughing and chatting.  I was driving to a friend's house and when I finally reached my destination and regrettably had to hang up, we both said, "Bye!" quickly, just like always.

 

There comes a point when there is nothing more to say, and yet so many things to say.  If I could have a friend like this for the rest of my life, we would never run out of things to talk about, or run out of questions.  I hope I can help her though whatever remains of her lifetime.  But the irony is, in reality, she is helping me.

 

 

 

 



The Interview, The Thugs and The North Side of Down

Creativity seems to attract bullies.  Like many other movie buffs, I have watched with interest as Seth Rogan's new film, "The Interview" was yanked from its schedule, caving to apparent non-specific threats from an angry Korean bunch.  One could only feel the pride of patriotism when Sony was verbally spanked for this decision by everyone who mattered, including the likes of George Clooney and President Obama.

In what amounts to either the biggest international scandal ever caused by a film, or the smartest publicity stunt ever concocted, "The Interview" is due to release right on schedule.  But the message is clear:  We don't negotiate with terrorists.

While this scenario was unfolding, a similar situation (on a much smaller scale) was happening in my own life.  However, "The Interview" is a work of fiction.  Our story is all true.  On Thursday, December 18 at 9:14 pm, I received a barrage of text messages from a family member.  "I strongly recommend that you remove, 'The North Side of Down' from public review.... Others will strike back."

They went on to say that Amanda would lose her guardian, and I would lose all assets including any horses, dogs and vehicle, and face potential jail time. 

Amanda and I had anticipated a reaction like this.  After all, our story unfolds within a volatile, belligerent family.  But we had decided that our message was too important to ignore: That people with disabilities need to have a voice.  That it is important for people to get their affairs in order, to make their wishes known in a legal, undisputable way.  That just because someone is a blood relative, they don't need to be in your life.  That no one has the right to take your happiness.  That real love can withstand anything.

She knows I have a lawyer standing by, and that our manuscript was scrutinized with a fine-toothed comb before release.  As my attorney said, "The truth will set you free."

I waited through most of the texts, which went on and on.  Then I replied with, "You had better treat Amanda with nothing but kindness and respect from now on", and, "Please stop contacting me."

After the texts stop coming in, I looked around at my four dogs, sprawled around the room and panting happily, and wondered how in the heck they qualify as "assets."  Have I missed something?

Because Mean People Suck

 

I have a sweet friend who is slipping away.  Even though I haven't seen her in a year's time, I can feel her spirit leaving.  It might be because my consciousness knows she is going, and I am becoming resigned to the idea. 

I met her in 1989.  She is a great lover of animals and a champion of homeless cats, especially.  She is a tremendous patron of the arts.

But she is fragile.  The abuse she was witness to has hit her hard.  She was bombarded with dysfunction in her family and, probably because of her involvement in rescue, she had a high number of encounters with jerks.  Her sadness pervaded and there was always an air of desperation about her; an energy of forced attempt at happiness.

She wanted to die for a long time, but she was resigned to living.  Finally, cancer is having its way with her.  And this is our loss.  The world is losing a tremendous benefactor, a vessel of generosity.

Yesterday I had an unpleasant encounter with an unhappy person who oozes hatred, who puts her energy into twisting words and facts in order to trick people and fool people and cause dissension.  I am faced with the age-old question:  Why are the creeps allowed to stick around, while this beautiful, educated, kind hearted friend's life is cut short when she is barely 60 years old?

Because mean people suck!  They suck the living life blood right out of you.  They suck your energy.  They suck away your happiness and your positive thoughts.  They spread misery because it is all they know.

This is why the kind-hearted often succumb to disease, while the evil people forge onward.

Evil people will kill you.

I learned a valuable lesson from my sister Amanda, who has Down's syndrome, and recently went through a horrific time following the death of our Dad.  In the midst of bad behavior among her relatives, she stayed focused on what was important to her:  Love.  She was somehow able to shed all the abuse and hysteria that was heaped upon her, and concentrate on the thing that mattered most:  Her love for her family.

Now with my friend's demise, I am reminded again how important it is to turn away from the negativity dished out by those who thrive on it.  Concentrate on people who make you laugh, who love you, who are grateful for the time here.  Life is a brief and precious gift.  No matter who someone is, be they blood relative; be it a sibling or a spouse or a parent; no one has the right to steal your life away.  Get rid of the jerks; move on; stay focused on those who are kind, who have empathy, and who know how to love.  It's never too late to learn to truly live.

My Sister, the Author

Our book is published today. THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN joins the select few books actually written by an author (or co-author) with Down's syndrome.

Amanda has long been a writer at heart.  When she was a baby, she used to climb the stairs and sit with me in my bedroom while I wrote page after page on spiral-bound note paper.  I wrote and illustrated hundreds of pages of horse stories while my patient companion was content to just sit cross-legged on the bed near my desk, watching me or quietly coloring or just waiting.

At that time, I didn't realize the impact this was having.  Amanda was just a baby then. I graduated, moved away to Alaska and then the western states.  In the meantime, Amanda grew up illiterate.  Finally, when she was around 20 years old, I had moved back to Michigan and was spending lots of time with her.  I sat with her in the big gold chair in the living room looking at the back of an Eddie Rabbitt album.  She was a huge country music fan.  I was reading the words to, "I Love a Rainy Night."

She was attentive as always, and I began pointing out the letters and sounding them out.  When we reached the end of each line, we would sing it.

Perhaps it was the simplistic repetition of the song, but I thought she was catching on.

Later, watching a "Hooked on Phonics" infomercial, I told my then-husband, "This might work for Amanda.  They use music, see?"

He wanted no part of spending $200 on that program.  So, I saved my money and ordered one, and brought it home on my next trip North, along with a couple of Dr. Seuss children's books.  Mom and Dad wisely sent the program to Amanda's school.  It not only helped Amanda. but other kids in her special ed class learned to read, too.  When I asked Dad about her progress later, Dad said, "Yes, she is learning, but it's going to be limited."

I will never forget the first time Amanda stumbled through, "Green Eggs and Ham."  I was in tears.  She was 21 years old by then, and opening a whole new door for herself.

From that point on, the household exploded with paper and notebooks.  Amanda was filling every spiral-bound notebook in sight, practicing her writing in her shaky, angular cursive hand.  She copied pages of old paperbacks.  Eventually she began writing her own thoughts; page after page.

A writer was born.

When finally she began journaling after our Mom's death, I asked her, "How would you like to write a book with me?  We can write about our mother, and Dad, and our experiences with the family."

She loved the idea.  We pored over our story, building it one page at a time, editing and discussing and reading to each other.  We lost Mom, and we cried and wrote.  We lost Dad, and we cried and wrote some more.  Our siblings battled over Amanda's guardianship, and we wrote on in determination.  We were partners in a combined effort.  This was our project; our journey.  When I asked her if she was ready to become a published author, she said, "I cannot wait!  I. CAN. NOT. WAIT!"

So the little girl who quietly sat by has become a literary force in her own right.  Unencumbered by her disability, she forges onward.

"Limited," indeed!  ...If Dad could see her now.

Click to Order

Coming December 1

Click to order!

My new book, "The North Side of Down" will be available in just a couple of days. This is a bittersweet time for me, as this is my sister Amanda's story, and it involved a lot of heartache for both of us.  Amanda has Down's syndrome and she lost both of her parents within the space of 3 years.  As if that wasn't bad enough, she became enmeshed in a belligerent guardianship dispute between two siblings.

"The North Side of Down" tells how Amanda bore the pain of this era, this life-changing state, as she was hurtled through funerals, fights, being moved from one home to the next, court cases and isolation.  She managed it all without losing her dignity and in fact, came out smiling.

As much as I am horrified by the behavior of our siblings, I marvel at Amanda's elegance.  It's unfortunate that, due to more legal red tape, I was unable to keep her name on the book as my co-author.  But this is her story, heart and soul.  She will still get 50% royalties and I still expect her to attend events and book signings with me.

Our hope is that this story will give others a heads-up to get affairs in order.  You may grow up with someone, but you may not really know them until the chips are down.  At that point, you will find your true hero.

 

I'm a Believer

Clifford makes his stage debut this Saturday as Lord Farquaad's trusty steed in the Community Theatre of Howell's version of, "Shrek the Musical."

This wasn't my idea, despite the fact that I fell in love with the movie.  Hard.  I was so in love with, "Shrek," in fact, that I saw it on the big screen no less than six times. 

That's excessive, even for me.

I also bought the soundtrack and played it in my car until I wore it out.

When my friend, director Ann O'Reilly, first contacted me asking if Clifford could step in as Farquaad's horse, I didn't hesitate to jump at it.  But my first reaction to the idea of a musical play was to wonder how it could ever measure up to the dynamic genius of the film.  The answer, as with most good plays, is that it doesn't try.  It has the same characters, or some variation of them, the same story, and much of the same dialogue.  The music is different.  The acting and dancing and special effects all fall upon the mercy of whatever company is producing the effort.

But Howell is doing it right.   Mark Mazzullo's Shrek is a giant, green, bumbling behemoth.  Fiona, played by Annelise Hoshal is a flaming-haired goofball with a mean set of tap shoes.  Kevin Rogers' Donkey has the comic timing demanded of someone dressed in a suit with floppy ears.  The dancing, the music, the colors, the lights!  With the flash and glitter of the headdress of the formidable Dragon, the mighty Melinda Towns has a voice that could rival Adele.  And as Lord Farquaad, performing the entire two hours on his knees as a tiny little man who "overcompensates", Chris Salter is stealing the show.

Clifford has attended two rehearsals and, as I expected, is reveling in the glamour and attention.  His role is mercifully short -- he is to carry Farquaad down the aisle between the seats, deposit him on the stage, wait while he proposes to Fiona, and then deliver him back up the next aisle and out the back doors.

One of the most impressive things about Chris is that he is not a rider, but he is making it work.  "Cliffy, come to Daddy," he croons, as Clifford sidles a step away from him.  I realize this is one of the great things I miss most about live theatre -- the quick thinking, the ability to improvise during the inevitable unexpected moments.

Clifford is handling everything just fine, despite Farquaad's struggle to negotiate with the fake legs.  The hardest part for me will be getting through it with a straight face.