July 6
Item # 29 – Grandma’s cookbook
Allie,
You should take Grandma’s cookbook and find someone who will actually use it after you. I didn’t give you Grandma’s patterns because; well I’m just a little more shallow than you. Yes, it surprises me too. Now you can have them both.
Love,
Jo
***
Allie brought me Grandma’s old cookbook today. I didn’t even know she had it. I don’t sew and I have her patterns and Allie doesn’t cook and she has her cookbook. Between the red and white cover are standard recipes and Grandma’s family recipes handed down for generations. The lightest, fluffiest biscuits you’ve ever tasted; the best chicken and dumplings; and pies of every type. Except kidney pie I was always grateful that her recipes didn’t include kidney pie. She gave me Grandma’s cookbook saying I’d make better use of it.
I remember Grandma spending days in the kitchen baking at Christmas. Grandma was full of country wisdom doled out over the mixing bowl. One thing she use to say was you don’t have to be the smarter or prettiest or even the kindest, but you have to be willing to stand up for yourself. How long has it been since I believed in myself enough to stand up?
***
Being an “artist” is a lonely path. You paint and work and hope, pouring yourself into your work, with the hope that it is good enough. The only way to know if it’s good enough is by the judgment of other people. In the appreciation they express when they are willing to spend money to possess a little bit of your passion, to share in the glory of your work. Then you are an artist, a real artist, not just a woman who plays with paints, dreaming of her chance.
I had Allie put a few of my smaller paintings in the car so I could take them to the gallery I went to weeks ago. It’s the only one on my way to treatment.
I took two of my lighter works inside. Since I started smoking the cigarettes, my paintings had become less dark. Instead of blacks and grays with the occasional reds and gold undertones, my paintings sang of blues, greens, indigos and violets. Some soaring with color like jewels others more muted like the warm shades of a spring afternoon.
I walked inside with my stomach swirling. My shoes echoed on the floor like I had entered a sacred place where I didn’t really belong. I felt myself shrinking in size and importance. Another black clad young woman approached.
I decided to tell her directly my interest. I didn’t have enough time to play.
“I have a couple of paintings I’d like you to take a look at.”
I started unwrapping them.
“Whose?” she asked.
“Mine.”
“And you are?”
“Jolene Randall.”
“Never heard of you,” she said, turning to walk away.
“I know you’ve never heard of me. I just want you to take a look at these.”
I held them out for her to examine.
“New artists must submit eight by ten glossies of their work. Once we review the work, we’ll contact you if we feel your image is in line with ours,” the clerk recited.
“How long does that take?”
“Eight to ten months.”
“I don’t have that kind of time.”
“No one ever does,” she sighed.
“You don’t understand. Can’t you just look at them and tell me if I’m wasting my time?”
“You don’t understand. We have hundreds of inquiries. If I took the time to look at everyone’s work, I wouldn’t have time for anything else.”
“I’m just asking for a few minutes.”
“The name on the door isn’t yours. The owner decides what we do and don’t do here. And we don’t review artists’ works in the lobby. If you want any hope of ever showing in this or any other gallery, you’ll learn to follow the rules,” the pale clerk said.
As I started to leave, she continued, “And I don’t have to take a look at your work, I can look at you and tell you’re wasting your time here. You aren’t the kind of artist we’re looking for.”
When Allie heard the results, she wanted to kick some skinny, black clad, snooty butt, which wouldn’t have helped my cause.
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