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Little Pitchers Have Big Ears

4/6/2017

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My new habit of daily walking has stirred up quite a few memories from long ago. Today one resurfaced that gave me pause as to what relevance it might have in my life today. The poem regarding how people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime gave me a guide to measure my memory and I placed it easily  into the reason category. I'm not exactly sure for what reason, but I've been dwelling on it all day and have come to the conclusion that I can pretty much make its relevance as important as I want it to be in my life. In many ways I can relate the story I overheard as a young child to other events and people in my life. Both in the past and in the present. Giving so much merit to the memory by playing it on a loop in my head conjured up both compassion and empathy along with the thrill of witnessing a moment of courtship (so to speak) between a beautiful young woman and a ruggedly handsome young man.

I don't remember my age other than I was very young. If I had to give it a good guess, I suspect I was 6 or 7 which would make the year 1965 or 1966. During this time span I had a playmate whose parents employed a babysitter that lived in their home with them. I guess you would say she was a nanny although she wasn't called such at that time. She came to live with them from their hometown in another state, so they knew her well enough that they trusted her with their children. In exchange for watching their children they gave her a small salary which included room and board. For some reason I have the impression it was to also give her opportunities that weren't available to her in her hometown. 

One afternoon the babysitter brought my friend to play with me outside in my yard. I remember playing in the side yard by the clothesline with my playmate while the babysitter talked to a young man who came to visit with her while she watched us. I'm not sure if they realized how attentive I was to their conversation or if it even mattered to them that I was listening. Their fun loving playfulness with each other caught us girls up in their moments of laughter and we giggled as she challenged his strength by saying he couldn't pick her up because she was too heavy. Much to her pleasure he picked her up in his arms just like a groom would pick up his bride to carry over the threshold. After he scooped her up he twirled her around the yard until she begged to be let down.

After the laughter faded their conversation took on a much different tone and my memory starts to become somewhat disconnected. I'm not sure I have the sequence of the events he revealed about himself in the right order. I'm not really sure whether the laughter or the story came first. Nonetheless, he started telling her about some intimate moments in his life which seemed to start with him being in the military. What he went on to share about himself is what impacted my young mind.

He had fallen in love with a woman who was a heroin addict. In his effort to help her recover from her dependence on the drug he thought he could use it with her and then just stop to show her how easy it would be...to be an example of how will-power and personal choice would be the answer to overcoming her addiction. That didn't happen. He too became addicted with just a few uses. Maybe this is where the military came in because he went on to explain how painful his detox from the drug was even though he was in a hospital setting. I remember him using the term cold-turkey. A term I would later come to know its meaning. I also remember him saying he knew he could no longer be in a relationship with the woman even though he still loved her. The drug still consumed her life even after his recovery.

Whether this moment was meant to be some form of cosmic foreshadowing in my life is debatable depending on one's beliefs. Later in my young life and throughout a large portion of my adult life, I would live through the pain and turmoil of addiction within my own family. Some of those addictions would be overcome and some not. There aren't too many people in this world that can say addiction hasn't touched their life in some form and I am no exception. One cannot imagine the true impact it has on the lives of those who suffer with it, how truly difficult it is to overcome...if ever, or the impact on family dynamics unless one lives it.

Drugs take the life of loved ones not only through overdoses but through the breakdown of their internal organs caused by the degrading effects the drugs have on their bodies through the years. In my experience I have seen how difficult the recovery is and how easily the relapse can happen. Over and over again. I have lived through the split in family. I have witnessed the pain and suffering of parents, wives and children. I have witnessed the generational predisposition to addiction. All the while unable to do anything other than stand in my own form of suffering. Both willing and unwilling to be an enabler. Willing to be supportive if asked or not. Buffering the reality of it all from my own children and realizing that hiding the reality of it was in itself a form of enabling the illness and allowing it to continue on its path of destruction. A path that would lead to the death of my brother at the young age of 51. Even though his life was tumultuous, to say the least, and caused a great divide in our family he had a heart of gold. Truth be told we lost him when he was in his twenties when his addictions took over. When he lost his free will and never got it back completely.  

All those years ago my young mind absorbed the information I overheard that sunny afternoon and stored it for my entire life. In hindsight, I realize how it was a snippet of my life that attuned me to the ebb and flow of life.
How strength gives way to human weakness. How pain and laughter can coexist...be juxtaposed...be copacetic. How the sharing of ones laughter, sadness and pain are all part of getting to know one another intimately. Like the courting ritual of two young people that I witnessed so long ago. 

Little pitchers have big ears - This English expression (idiom) refers to little children overhearing and understanding more conversations than their parents might think. The allusion is to the ear-like handles often found on smaller pitchers.

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A view of today's sky over the Patuxent River - photo by Lisa Tettimer
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A Cauldron Full of Wishes

3/14/2017

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It never fails. I'm working on getting new pieces of jewelry made for a specific show and I get side-tracked by all of the pieces of metal from past projects that are still laying on my work bench. I start seeing new elements from the leftover metal from the negative space of the things I've made before and the dominant theme of my thoughts for the day or week just seem to emerge in a 3D composition. It's never planned. At least not in the traditional way. No sketches were rendered, no written list of materials, and no idea how or whether the project will turn out.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about wishes, among other things. The kind of wishes that are unspoken and invisible and stay gathered in the far recesses of one's conscious thoughts. The kind of wishes that are mostly rhetorical in nature but wishes nonetheless. 

Recently I've also been thinking about the ongoing debate about whether a society, or humanity as a whole, can believe in both God and science. It has always been my humble opinion that yes, it is possible. For all of the wonders that God has bestowed upon this earth, it is humanity (and only humanity) that has created the sciences to understand all that He has given us. Why would a greater power than mankind give us the ability to question "why" if we weren't supposed to use that question? Even if it should only be used to help preserve all that sustains us. But unfortunately science can be used for both good and bad. So, it is one of my grandest wishes that only good prevail in the use of science. 

These earrings started from flat football shaped scrap brass sheet metal. I used a cheap little ball peen hammer and a traditional metalsmithing technique to "raise" the sides of the cauldron bowl. The handles are made from fine silver wire, hammered and stamped with a starburst motif. All of the components along with the soldering are done with rugged finesse. The flaws are not hidden or reworked. It is never my intention to produce perfection with these projects. I strive more for an aged weathered patina and the look of quality from a learning craftsman. The star dangling above is perfect though, just like the ones in the night sky. At least as perfect as a man or woman can produce a shape symbolic to our natural world. (It's a purchased charm.)  All of the components are brought together with an imperfect flat ring of fine silver. 

As I raised the sides of the cauldron my wishes filled the hollow space. Like the wishes of a child in awe of the surrounding world; my cauldron will always be full even when one of my wishes is no longer a wish. Another wish will certainly fill the void.

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A Purple Rubber Duck

1/8/2017

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I have to preface this post with some insight about me. Most who will read this know that I worked as a classified employee in the public school system for over 34 years. During those years no matter what my job title was I always considered everyone my boss; everyone from administrators to teachers to other classified employees to the students and to their parents. It's my nature​. I always put myself in the position of doing things that nobody else wanted to do because the job was too mundane or not important enough to spend the time doing. I always felt those kinds of jobs needed to be treated like they were the most important jobs in the system. My intention was to always give an artistry to the mundane or the seemingly not-so-important routine tasks. It was in that way I could honor all those who I admired in the educaton field...that is if someone were to notice. (And if I am  totally honest, I also did it for the steady income and the health benefits.) Even though I enjoyed the jobs I did there was never much fanfare and there was always a downside. Some days were very overwhelming or depressing to my soul. Some days were even humiliating, but I'm pretty sure I never showed just how much a bad day took its toll on me. Except to those who cared to notice. Because of this I learned to be like a purple rubber duck. If you don't already know, I'm pretty thin-skinned. A trait some consider to be a character flaw. I always have been and always will be thin-skinned. I see and feel things through a series of vibrations, through my eyes, through my hands, through my skin and in my brain. At least that's the way it seems to me. I valuate this character trait as my secret to being an artist...It's better to let the bad things roll off my back than to develop such a thick-skin that I stop feeling or allowing the vibrations in. 


A purple rubber duck sat among the stapler and tape dispenser on my desk at work. It was a gift. A gift from one of my bosses. I think she probably had many rubber ducks in her desk drawer. One for each person she met that took everything to heart. She was good at seeing those things in the people she worked with and in the people she advised. She knew there were people in the world that would never develop thick-skin so other coping skills would be in order. She was one of those school counselors like Michelle Obama just honored. She was an educator in the public school system. A system I truly believe in and value as one of the most important bases of our democratic republic. I only had one other job in the school system after she gave me that duck but it moved along with me and took up residence on a new desk with a new set of interactions and a new set of coworkers. 

Fast forward to...yesterday. I thought about that purple rubber duck when I was painting in my studio. At first I thought I had pitched it out with all of the other things I brought home from my desk. But then I realized it was in one of three places from when I last organized my life. I found it in the third place and it is now taking a prominent spot in my studio. Even though I'm retired from my day job, I still need to let things roll.

​I thought those days of worry were over but they're not. I've come to realize that no matter what I do in my life, I have thin-skin. It's a fact of my life. There will always be things that bother me. Things that vibrate in a most uncomfortable way. Things that I feel passionate about...things that I didn't realize I feel so passionate about...things that I believe in...things that I didn't realize just how much I believe in them....things that may very well change. Things like the freedoms we value today in our democratic republic. Will they be in place when my granddaughters become adults? Will these freedoms become enhanced and broadened or will my granddaughters experience a more watered down version of today's freedoms or no freedoms at all? Such profound and somewhat disturbing thoughts on a silent snowy day. Thoughts that stir my passion and all the while I painted The Fairy Tree.



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The Fairy Tree
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Shadow of a Woman

9/8/2016

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Photo by Lisa Tettimer
I've always been intrigued by shadows.  Sitting in front of my kitchen window in the late afternoon sunlight today sent me for my camera. The texture created by my new bamboo shades reminded me of an abstract painting. A sunlit self portrait with no details. Blurred lines and simple color. And for some reason when I was choosing which picture to use for my blog it made me sad...very, very sad.

I am in the mid years of my life. I ruminate about the human experience. All of the flaws and all of the splendor of the human experience. I ruminate over the sadness I have experienced, the joy I've known and the simple day to day ordinary that lies between the sadness and the joy. I think about why it is that I have so little self-confidence. Why I consider myself to be less valuable than those I place upon pedestals. And all the while I know why. I know the answer is in my sadness. The thing that makes me the saddest. Loss.

Every now and then I allow myself to wallow in my own self-pity. Putting it in words to share with others. Not for sympathy. Just to share. Just to say "this is me". And then I stop and I go back to finding the wonder in my day to day living. Being a creative soul. Making things to serve my own peace. Looking for a way to hide the sadness of my shadow.
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Photo by Lisa Tettimer
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Art = Love

10/13/2015

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Today my mind is consumed with anxiety over the fear of the unknown. Just when you need to hear the right words from anyone (and anyone will do) you get a note back from a life long childhood friend on Facebook. (Perfect) The conversation between us started with me letting her know I had just changed my price points on my digital art prints.  She just purchased one and I wanted her to choose another. Her response brought tears to my eyes because she so eloquently gives me such wonderful feedback.  She is a master crafter of the written word. In response I couldn't stay all wishy- washy emotional so I shared with her this funny anecdote about the print she just purchased. I decided to share it on my blog too...

Re: Seated (To me the title represents comfort with one's self.)

A customer at my last art fair bought one of my prints and shared her thoughts with me. This is what she said, "I collect mermaids but they have to have the right faces. This one [Seated] reminds me of a Madam." The exchange of conversation between the customer and I was light-hearted and I'm always flattered by their purchase and interested in their spoken perception of my art. But, I had to laugh in my head as I recalled all of the conversations I had in art school with classmates about how an artist has to "prostitute" his or her art to make a living when she mentioned the term "Madam". It's true, we do. It's difficult to give our art up by putting a price on it and selling it. Yet it's always easy to give it away. It's the same with love.
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A Hint of Blush

10/8/2015

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​​As I worked in my studio today the house was quiet, no music, no television, all alone and my mind was on autopilot with free association memories playing through my head. Suddenly my mind stopped on a memory like a marble on a roulette wheel.  As the memory, like the marble, bounced to rest in my head I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I felt the constriction of my throat mu​scle that paralyzes my vocal cords during uncomfortable moments. My thoughts stopped on an embarrassing moment I experienced years ago. I was physically and emotionally reliving the moment as if it had just happened. It only lasted for a moment but it lead me to wonder why I had such an intense reaction to the memory. Then I realized that I have just as intense emotional responses to all of my memories. Sad memories make me cry, happy memories make me smile, funny memories make me laugh out loud; so why shouldn't an embarrassing moment make me blush? Silly me. 

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    Author's Note

    A look into my artist mind! This compilation of thoughts inspires & produces each unique piece of art & jewelry I create. 

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