Bibliophile - Collector - Hoarder: My Life in Books

I love books. LOVE. I collect old books, first editions, author signed books, books on every imaginable topic and I'm not kidding. Eclectic is a good adjective to describe my hoard of books. Books fill every room in my house. The bookcase of vintage books, some dating to the early 1700's, pictured above, is only one of my collections. Not all my collections are contained, nor can be or should be, and herein lies the problem. Can I let a book go? Give it up, or away once I've read it. So far, the answer has been no.

Years and years ago when I was married to my first husband, we moved a lot. I remember the boxes of books, and the arguments they caused, and that giving up even one book was a deal breaker. The "deal" broke anyway, but not because of books, but I won't get into that.

I've always been obsessed with books and have kept a pile of books near me, as early as I can remember, (and I can remember way back. My first memory is of my father leaning over my bassinet saying, "shut up you little shit". It's funny if you really think about it that this is my first memory, but I digress...).

As soon as I had the motor capabilities to grab and run, I had a book with me. I was not a doll girl. I was always a book girl, (and a tree girl, as in climber on, hanger out in, reader of books in, and so on). My first grade teacher upgraded me to third grade privileges - I could check out more than one book at a time. I also spent as much time as my mother had to take us, in the public library. I still frequent the library, but checking out books and returning them does not work for me. I have to possess the books. Returning books turned out to be a problem. I have to own them, and then I can't let them go. Not even one.

When I was first working I spent equal money on books and shoes. I still have the books. Books were literally breaking my bank. Enter thrift stores and used book stores! Books of every sort could be had for a few dollars, sometimes even a few quarters. As you can imagine, my book collection exploded, but so did my reading universe. I have stumbled on books I never would have in an ordered bookstore or library. I've read more science and memoirs this past year than I have in the last thirty. And more fashion, children's, literary theory, self help, business, etiquette, how-to, autobiographies, cookbooks, travel books...

A book I just read stated that humans are hard wired for hoarding to survive. Okay, but, the abundance of the 21st century has nothing in common with the scarcity of Paleolithic times. It appears we are our biology.

Even though I am a believer that books (and art) can save your life, and many, many times it's been a book that has been my lifeline, it's time to let a few go. A few. Baby steps.

I've been spending the last couple weekends getting my books under control. It's either that or I post a Library sign over the front entry and open the doors of my home to the public.

Artist of the Day: Pompeii - Emilia Kaminski

Pompeii Emilia Kaminski www.emiliakaminskiart.com

I've been reading about Pompeii the last couple weeks and learned something I missed in my Art History 101 class with Mr. Tibbets, (although I'm certain he covered it)- Pompeii had four separate fresco styles. Lucky for us when Vesuvius blew and buried the city, it preserved the art, and literal world of this ancient city until it was rediscovered some 1700 years later.

If you care to know what they are and see examples, click here. Or about Pompeii and its destruction by volcano here, (be sure to check out Discovery Channel's virtual volcano!

Emilia's painting, to my mind, is influenced by the First Style, also known as encrustation style. To see more of her work check out her website and etsy shop.

Artist Bio:
For many years I have been involved with art and design, and their history and development. I have graduated from the Academy of Visual Arts. Know and unknown artists and designers inspired me to create a new paintings and to develop my abstract skills.

I use different techniques, forms, composition color and emotion in my paintings. I am primarily focused an expressing the qualities, and texture of the painting's surface. I wish to liberate myself from any form and coping reality and nature in my art. I don't want to show the real object, I want to use the colors and forms freely.

I express a wide spectrum of emotions in my abstract art such as despair, ecstasy, resignation and many others.

My paintings can be found in galleries, on-line shops and private corporate collections in many parts of the World.

Presently I collaborate with designers and work as an Abstract artist.

Thank you so much for your attention and interest in my art.

Artist of the Day: Autumn Leaves - Jeff Friesen

Autumn Leaves Jeff Friesen www.jeff-friesen.com

I am not a happy girl this week. Somebody messed with my daylight!

Fall back, Spring forward. Grrr. We fell back Sunday when Daylight Savings Time (aka the Uniform Time Act of 1966 / 1986's Daylight Savings Time / the 2005-07 Energy Policy Act) foisted itself on the circadian rhythms of residents of the US, save independent Arizona, whose residents refused to be jerked around by a decision to conserve energy and daylight and let Nature mind it's own business, they'll mind theirs.

If you really want to curse somebody other than faceless, nameless government, how about George Vernon Hudson who started this way back in 1895.

Members of the EU fell back in October, so they've had more time to work their cranky out.

I know this is not that important of an issue, maybe I just need a nap, but I like driving to work in the dark, watching the sun come up and the blue screen of my computer fade as the light grows. What has made me cranky is that the sun has all but disappeared by 5 PM, and there are at least five more peak hours left to the day. More importantly, maybe I'm just wary since it's around this time the blues arrive: the sun gone down dum dum de dum and it's so bad sitting in this here dark.
Lucky thing for fluorescent light, eh? And art.

My first thought, other than gorgeous, was architectural. Architectural is how Nova Scotian artist Jeff Friesen photographs them, with the intent to emphasize the architectural beauty of the mundane, thereby elevating an ordinary leaf. Read his bio and check out his work on his website and etsy site.

Artist Bio:
You never know what we’ll find. I spend a lot of time exploring outdoors with my daughter. One autumn day we were sitting amongst fallen chestnut leaves and I was struck by their resemblance to Frank Gehry’s architecture. We gathered some leaves and brought them to my studio. I propped up the leaves by planting their stems in clay and photographed them from a low angle using window light bounced off of tin foil for a metallic effect. In the camera’s viewfinder the fading leaves became *wabi-sabi towers and temples.

*Wabi-sabi (侘寂) represents a comprehensive Japanese world view or aesthetic centered on the acceptance of transience. The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of beauty that is "imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete."

I enjoy elevating the modest into the monumental. As Walt Whitman said, “I believe a blade of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.”

My name is Jeff Friesen and I'm an international award-winning photographer. You can find more of my work here: www.jeff-friesen.com

This Moment: 7:59 - November 6, 2011.

Back under the covers. A thin scurf of snow fans across the front lawn. Trees are still heavy with fruit and leaves. It is the in-between of seasons. Fall has yet to cede to Winter. It is difficult to let go. Geranium blooms hold the first trace of frost and their fuchsia will retreat into withered browns by day's end. I hear the dryer whirring, a periodic clang of metal on metal. The blue spruce across the street is frosted with snow and appears to be auditioning for a spot on a holiday show. The small dog is foraging in the trash. I call to him to stop. Silence, then the bells of his tags, and he enters the room holding a paper towel that smells of bacon grease. I take it from him. He watches me throw it into the outside bin, happily follows me back to the bedroom. He jumps on the bed for a quick pet and then positions himself to guard his territory from passing cars and joggers. Dogs are creatures of the moment, they don't hold grudges. I should learn from them, drop my heavy bags I've been carrying all these years and focus on the moment, this moment: a train humming down the track, the morning light on yellowing leaves, crisp air that fills the empty spaces.

My Space, My Office

My Space

Everyone needs a defined space to claim as their own. We need a place to put our stuff, coffee mug, pictures, action figures, you name it, where everyone else knows, "hands off"! I recently relocated to a new office. This was harder than I imagined. Change isn't that daunting, but moving spaces turned out to be.

My new office is tiny and when I first saw it I told myself it had um, er, potential. The space used to be absolutely dreary and depressing. A multitude of wires hung from the ceiling. The windowsill was populated with an assortment of dried husks of flies, beetles, and the occasional wasp. Spiderwebs held the dust of decades. I foreclosed the spider's domain, and put her out on the literal street, the sidewalk directly outside my office. Sorry Charlotte.

The floor was stained as if it had been submerged in brackish water for at least a decade, and the back bulletin board had at least one thousand push pins and tacks stuck in it.

I spent weekends at local thrift stores looking for furniture and eclectic furnishings. I also spent probably far too much time cutting up old art history books making collages to fill the stained bulletin board.

My space feels comfortable now.

What is your space? Send a pic and a brief description, and I'll post it. (note: I am turning over a new leaf and checking comments and actually replying. In the past I didn't notice a comment until it was at least a month or so old)

Poem Therapy: Opal - Amy Lowell November 3, 2011 8:09 A.M

Opal
Amy Lowell

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

Opal was my paternal grandmother's name. In truth, I didn't know her well, and at a very young age, I appropriated my father's anger with her. All I knew is that she took the other children and left him with my grandfather, who in truth, spent the majority of his days, drinking his paycheck on the backstreets of 25th. I knew that my grandmother didn't like my mother very much, that the feeling was mutual, and that she never accepted my older three siblings from my mother's previous marriage.

I knew the wound was deep, both for my father and my beloved grandfather.

Now that I'm older, have two marriages and one divorce, a child and stepchildren, I'm coming to know her in a more subtle light than the harsh black and whites of childhood. I understand why my grandmother, a nonMormon,poor, fatherless, girl married at fifteen to a man fifteen years older, would look to another man, any man, to provide an escape, to a supposed happier, richer life. It didn't happen that way for Opal, my grandmother. Yes, she left my grandfather for the neighbor, and they were happy, for a time. But then he died suddenly, and she was again at the mercy of the gods.

I also know now that my father chose to stay with his father, as a kind of moral judgement. He was twelve, old enough to understand that my grandmother was leaving his father for another man, a "Greek", but not old enough to understand that not every choice has to be judged good or bad. Some are just necessary, regardless of the details.

I also understand now that life broke my grandfather very early: the death of his closest brother, coupled with the death of his eldest brother in WWI, the sudden death of elder sister, being spurned by his fiance, his family's rejection of his new wife and the subsequent divorce, crushed his poet's heart irreparably. Woe on treble woe.

After all this, my grandmother was his last hope at happiness, and he drank it away.

I've been reimagining their lives, off and on, mostly off, for the last few years in my novel, a reimagining of a Greek tragedy. Opal is reimagined as Ruby, Archie as Lawrence. They're minor characters in the novel and yet through reimagining their lives I see just how little we know anyone, including ourselves. We are all blind to our deepest impulses, our deepest selves.

It's this truth, our inability to see,that makes us so fascinating.

This Moment: October 29, 2011- 7:20 A.M.

The sound of breathing fills the room. The dog's inhales are out of sync. Passing cars sound like waves crashing. A plane and it's passengers pass overhead. The moon is an unknowable eye, hidden in the dense colors of the morning. I think of Hamlet's witching hour and wonder who wanders my land in the soul's in-between journey back to their underworld. The small dog sighs in his sleep, shifting to his side. I've seen this before; he is positioning for a scratch. Then the old dog snoring on his pillow will waken, growl, and unfold herself and with slow and halting steps, come to the side of the bed for her pets. The younger dog will try to solely occupy my hand, and failing, will leap to the hardwood and nip and snarl until both spend every last dime of jealousy, then return to their pillows, eyes on me, waiting to be let outside. A car is ratcheting down the street, squealing as if pursued by murderers. The end of harvest nags a long list of what has been left undone. The fields are stripped bare. The first frost has not arrived. The land will be planted with wheat that will harbor like a secret under the snow. The pear tree holds it's cache of fruit. Fallen pears lie beneath like a cast circle in a long forgotten ritual. I am on this fertile land, but unlike my ancestors, not of it. I know that although I am not subject to its mercy, I am bound to it and cannot leave. The light is turning night to day. Harvest is past. Soon, the dead will walk the earth again on the day set apart for them. I will leave a plate outside for my dead, leave a box of Lorna Doones on her headstone, pour a beer into the clipped cemetary grass between the two brothers, and perhaps this year have the courage to pour salt on the grass of another grave and let the darkness finally go. The sun is visible above the Rocky Mountains. Day is here. The winter is coming.