No Photo. Just a Memory

Sometimes I cry about what seem to be the silliest things.  Today I wanted to show my favorite photo from my trip to Charleston, SC.  But it’s gone.  For me, this photo says (said) so much about me and the way I see life (and my teeny part in it).  Amazing how something can so easily disappear.  And amazing that I am so easily brought to tears.

The photo was taken through my hotel window, five stories up, of a little plant that had grown in the windowsill.  I noticed it on the morning of our second day.  It was cool and breezy and the little plant swayed and bobbed.  It looked to be some kind of fern.  Something tropical and unknown to me.  Obviously, no one on the hotel staff had seen this plant or it would have been unceremoniously removed.  Likely, I was the first and only to see this little out of place plant.  I felt an instant kinship.

How can this little fern thrive here, I wondered.  There could only be a miniscule amount of dirt and moisture in that crack in the wood.    It couldn’t possibly know nor care that thousands and thousands of its kind were flourishing five stories down and in garden after garden until the land meets the water.  No one has ever read this plant the adage “bloom where you are planted.”  It is not telling itself that it has overcome all kinds of obstacles.  It is only the result of a wind-blown spore meeting a tiny crack.  It doesn’t yearn to live among the other plants down on the warm ground, protected from the wind.  It just is.  Or was.  Chances are just as likely that it is gone as it is that it is thriving and doubling in size every week.

I suppose I am obsessing about this little plant (and with the city itself).  The suggestion to return to Charleston and room 528 of the Hampton Inn would be met with an immediate packing of toiletries in small bottles into quart-sized baggies.  Yes, I would be greatly disappointed to find the plant dead or removed.  At least I would be back in that city.  Among other artists, warm-weather lovers and intoxicatingly fragranced vines (five stories down and until the city meets the water).  This time, however, I would quickly grow roots so I could not be unceremoniously removed.

Quiet and Alone. What's wrong with that?!?

There are those out there that keep exquisite journals. Artwork. Clippings. Hugely creative doodles. These things get shown in national magazines.

I infrequently buy journals. I love paper. I love blank paper. I love a fresh book. I just don’t know how to properly deal with these things.

Now, if I buy a journal, I make sure it is quite small with few pages. That way, if I get a third of the way through, I can feel some sort of accomplishment.

I put little sketches in them. Mostly designs. I cannot “draw,” so no portraits or still lifes for me. So a page of multi-sized dots may be the extent of my drawing. Often I will write a pithy thought or perhaps an excruciating line about my mother’s death. How about a short list of names I will never be called? Or a list of my five (at the moment) favorite words?

I am now taking an on-line creativity course. I am supposed to write down my dreams. I am supposed to write down my fears. I HATE writing this kind of stuff down. It makes me feel like a dweeb and I already feel like a dweeb, that’s why I’m taking this course. I’m searching for a way to creatively leave my dweebiness behind.

In picking up a journal to do a writing exercise I don’t want to do, I flip though a few scribbled pages, among many blank ones. One page simply has a single word. And this word makes me laugh hysterically.

Hermitopolis.

What a fantastic place that would be! A city. A metropolis. Where one could actually be a hermit. Beautiful little apartments lined with books. Coffeehouses where hermits could infrequently meet or sit by themselves, lined with books, of course. Narrow little book-lined townhouses. Doors open on occasion to admit one’s closest friends. Little shops. Movie houses. Bistros. And then quickly home. Ahhhh, hermitopolis.

I’m not sure why I chose to write that one word down. No doubt I was feeling hermity. I feel that quite often. But I’m thinking I would like to live in hermitopolis. I’m sure it would not be a bad, cold, unfeeling place. Hermits care about others. They just prefer to peek through the curtains at what is going on in the street. If they even bother with peeking through the curtains. Perhaps they are damn jolly just working on a puzzle, doing some research, or perhaps having a delightful and saucy evening with another hermit of choice.

Tonight my daughter is going to a sleepover at 6:00. The hubby is trying to plan the perfect evening out. Dinner? A movie? A band? All three or just a combination? I don’t know. It’s cold. Snow is on the ground. I’m thinking of a cozy little restaurant. One with a fireplace. One populated with several other hermits having a rare night out. Then back home to do the hermit thing. Sounds good to me.

American Way

The newest piece comes together:

Lots of bits and pieces to choose from.  I seem to be in the mood for red, gold and black.

I've decided to put nine 4-inch boards together to create one piece.

Cut, paint, stamp, glue.  Cut, paint, stamp, glue.

The main layout is done.  Now for the extras!

American Way I, 12 x 12 " collage on board, ©2011 Kim Hambric

I have 3 other collages of collages (I'm not sure what to call these.  Any ideas?) ready to photograph and one ready to be glued together.  I'm loving making these!

This piece is now in my Etsy shop.

Be Here

Be Here, 8 x 8", ©2011 Kim Hambric

Imagine a sunny, autumn day in the city.  You have a map and a plan to see a museum, get a coffee and walk down new streets.  The day is yours.  The city is yours.

This piece is now in my Etsy shop.

My Idea of Heaven: Place, Part II

My Idea of Heaven, 8x8" ©2011 K. Hambric

I once saw a photograph of an intersection in Seattle.  On each corner was a coffee shop.  This is my idea of heaven.  Imagine the smell.  Fragrant of memory and of promise.  A brew of stories.  Caffeine!

I love cities.  Most of my vacations are centered around cities. 

I love maps of cities.  I used to draw fantasy city maps.  Others drew maps of fantasy lands (after they had read the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, of course).  As a child I would create city maps out of just about anything:  paper and pencils, dominos, Tinker Toys, clothes pins, game pieces, empty cartons, building blocks, and probably 200 other items. 

My goal was to become a city planner.  I wanted to design cities from the bottom up.  From scratch.  All new.  Later I realized that was impossible.  Like plants and people, cities grow.  From towns.  From villages.  From a settlement of a handful of houses, a blacksmith shop and a general store (and/or a saloon).  Out and up.  Neighborhoods form, grow, and often, eventually die.

While I love to be in a city with a map, most of the time I have to be content at home with a map.  What do I do with surplus computer time?  Head to GoogleMaps.  Zoom in.  Zoom out.  Where do I think the rich people live?  Could those large masses in the central city be a convention center (replacing what was thought to be a declining neighborhood)?  Does that mass of restaurant, coffee, and shopping icons indicate a vibrant urban node, perhaps gentrified?

. . . I can smell the coffee now. . 

Visit this piece on Etsy.

Signs of the Times XXVII and XXVIII

Signs of the Times XXVII, 6 x 6"

Signs of the Times XXVIII, 6 x 6"

Still continuing my obsession with old, industrial cities. Signs of the Times XXVII contains text from a vintage textbook about shipping and commerce on between cities on the Great Lakes. Signs of the Times XXVIII contains pieces of a vintage map of Detroit, MI.

The decline of these once great cities bothers me in the extreme. As these cities decline, so does the culture of our country. Our countryside is stripped and flattened for the spread of subdivisions. Most Americans live so far from any city, that they rarely experience what cities have to offer. Museums, theaters (real ones, not those 12 to a box ones), galleries, cultural centers, diversity. Far too many of us sit way out in new subdivisions with the television constantly turned on and tuned into one of those reality shows with women who have all character sucked out of them and have had the great fortune of having made a sex tape with someone and . . .

Good heavens, I got up on the high horse again. What I mean is, get out of the house, visit the city, see a show, shop at an independent shop, eat at a non-chain restaurant.

These pieces are now for sale on Etsy.

Signs of the Times VIII

Signs of the Times VIII, 6 x 6"

I'm beginning to realize that this series is a bit dark. No doubt it will stay that way. I've become obsessed with the cities of the northeast and upper midwest. Old industrial cities. Buffalo, Detroit, Cleveland, Minneapolis, Milwaukee. So much of these cities is abandoned or declining. Yet each city has pockets of new life; some of it shining and beautiful, some of it misguided and hostile to the city itself. These older cities have older neighborhoods with character. Old theaters, new coffee shops, old homes, new lofts. New life and possibility layered over the old.

Signs of the Times VIII is made with a vintage map of downtown Buffalo. It is available for sale on Etsy.