Oh, Thank Cuteness!

My friend Jake, who spearheads Generation Q Magazine, got a blog topic going this week - "Oh, Thank Cuteness!" She wrote about her daughter, and invited the readers to chime in with their versions. She got me to thinking about my son Steve, known to many in my life as The Boy (the capitalization is honorific here) and so here goes...

Steve's personality was evident in utero. Every time we got an ultrasound wand near him he turned his back playfully and kept us guessing as to his gender. We could tickle his feet through my tummy, and in return he would torment me with bump-heaving hiccups. He made us wait to meet him, finally consenting to arrive the better part of a month late. The reward in this is that he smiled early.

From the get-go, he had a sense of humor. Mischief sparkled in his eyes often, and still does. He's relentlessly funny, not in that doesn't-know-when-to-quit annoying way, but in a lightness of being that is just present, even when he's not fully awake. It's a lightness that carries me often, as I tend to take it all a bit too seriously.



At two years old, Steve grabbed the hose while I was washing the car and sprayed me down, squealing. It was the first salvo in water wars that continue between us even today. As a youngster, he would ask the most hair-curling questions, but could find the humor in the then-ickyness of the answers. As a sleepy teen, he took to tapping my head and mumbling "snooze" when I tried to wake him up. I once painted his toenails while he was napping, and he laughed and wore it for the day before asking for the remover.



Steve understands the concept of having fun. He encouraged me to give up the 2-day ritual of decorating for Christmas and instead spend it in pajamas eating leftover Chinese food, while watching a full season of something geeky with him. In fact, this is how we spent our last Thanksgiving together, getting properly dressed only long enough to go to the movies in the afternoon. I reflect back on that day and remember it as one of my faves.

It would be easy to see all this fun and humor and imagine that Steve is just a party guy. Far from the truth. He thinks deeply about lots of things, and continues to ask the tough questions. The first election he voted in was the one that put Schwartzenegger on California's throne, and there was Steve, wading through the pamphlets and brochures, trying to figure out how you pick a winner out of a pack of a hundred when all you can see is the slick marketing.

Like his mama, Steve wears his heart on his sleeve. And literally at that. When he decided to get tattoos, he asked me to help design something that spoke to his ideas of family heritage and life philosophy. No impetuous, beer-fueled doodles for him. I was honored to be trusted with this, and he graciously let me share a version of the same ink (it's on my foot). He has since added more to his collection, all beautiful, and of course, consciously chosen and personally meaningful to him.

Obviously, there is a lot about Steve that has a lot to do with me. But then there is that part that doesn't have anything to do with me at all. It's a construction of what he has observed and tried and discarded, ever refining who he chooses to be on any given day - and I find that I really like that guy. I like how straight he tries to shoot. I admire that he keeps trying. I'm humbled by how loyal he is to those he loves.

We are tight, Steve and I - and this is the greatest thing in the world to me. They say you can tell who a man is by how he treats his mother. Let me tell you... Steve is a good man.

A Call to Arms

A couple of months ago I attended a screening of Miss Representation, a pretty important film that is now catching some deserved rotation on the Oprah network. In it, a bleak picture of the current portrayal of women in the media is painted. One would imagine that it would have been easy to make this film one long peepshow of the offending gratuitous images, but instead it is a finely crafted affair, focused on many women in positions of power eloquently discussing the complexities of the issue. It is a somber analysis, smartly presented, and well worth your time.

The film tackles not only the responsibilities of the men who have the power over these images (there is a dearth of female leadership in the upper echelons of pretty much any field), but also brings forth the responsibilities required of women. Even if we haven't yet scored the top jobs, the time has come to give up watching from the sidelines while other people manage our image. We are certainly not powerless. We can write. We can vote. We can use our considerable purchasing power to change the landscape. But the film makes one thing frighteningly clear: we MUST do these things to reverse the terrible backslide in the long way we've tried to come since the 70's. And if we won't do it for ourselves, we need to do it for the upcoming generations of girls.

And so, with this movie ringing in my consciousness, when I caught the headlines about Ashton Kutcher's latest fling, instead of keeping my thoughts to myself (as a polite and seemly woman is taught to do), I wrote the following. It's my offering to the conversation started by Miss Representation. Hope you enjoy:

While there have been many times in my life that I thought being a man would have made things so much easier, I have always appreciated that one of the greatest things about being a woman is being part of the team, the sisterhood. Women have girlfriends, that priceless tribe of confidantes that supports us through the best of times, and the worst of times. Women, for the most part, take care of each other, regardless of what the latest reality bitch-and-bite show would have you believe. We understand that to make it out in the world we need to stick together, have each other’s backs, and support each other like only women can. And so, as I note the most recent lapse in judgment of a certain young lady in Ashton Kutcher’s presence, I want to call women to arms to take care of our womenfolk.

First of all, to Ms. Sarah Leal and to any other women who eyes a married man: Stop it. Stop it right now. You are letting down the team. Move on. If we are serious about elevating our stature as women, we need to take care of our married sisters by not pursuing their men. It is easy to think that a man’s choice to cheat on his wife is none of our business, but if we are serious about taking care of each other, this is business of a most critical order. Don’t fall for that trite “she done me wrong” sob story. Please. You are smarter than that. Don’t help him hurt one of our sisters by cheating with him. Wasn’t it the late, great and wise Ann Landers who pointed out that a man who marries his mistress is merely creating a vacancy in the position? Don’t contribute to the stereotype of philandering lothario as a great catch. True sexy is a man who stands up for his woman, not one who lets her down. Such weak-willed opportunists are catch-and-release material only. If you must give a married guy some attention, let it be in the form of a referral to a great therapist. And then walk away. We can inspire men to better standards by raising our own.

Second, to Ms. Leal: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’ve stood by in silence while media standards for the portrayal of women has sunk low, so low that we have taught you that the way to make it big in this life is by banging a celebrity and selling your story to a tabloid. I should have fought for a media depiction of us that is so much deeper than an image parade of starlet décolletage. I should have stood up for you, for me, for all of us years ago when I first noticed the downhill slide. I should have argued for better portrayal of women who are doing the kind of stuff that would inspire you do something big with your life, the kind of big that would have you featured on TED.com instead of in the gossip rags. Truly, I’m sorry.

Ladies, you have my word that I’m working on it right now. I am voting with my feet, turning off the sexist shows, and writing to call attention to the abuses of our image. But I need your help. Can you do a solid for the team?

Parables of the Knicker Drawer

I met Gill when I was fourteen years old. She was expecting her first child, Robert, and as a Cub Scout leader with an upcoming weekend camp scheduled, had mentioned to her co-worker, my step-mum, that an extra pair of hands at camp would be a nice thing. My step-mother immediately volunteered me to help. Being a disinterested former Girl Guide, not to mention disinterestedly fourteen, I wasn’t too keen on being press-ganged into chasing boys around a campsite. But parental authority being what it is, I reported for camp. And thus began one of the best relationships of my teen years.

The first impression I had of Gill was that she was real. No facades on this lovely lady, she possessed a marvelous sense of humor, subtle and self deprecating, but always razor sharp and completely spot-on in its observation of the nuttiness in everyday moments. As an altogether too-serious teenager, she showed me that life could be fun if you had a good laugh now and then, especially if you could do it at yourself. As she and Colin encouraged me to stay in Scouting, I got to learn about volunteering for kids from two of the masters at the game.

Their house became a haven for me in many ways. I got to hang out there under the guise of helping out with Robert, and later Jamie, but really, Gill was making sure I had a place to escape a trying relationship with my step-mother, and to test the fledgling wings of impending adulthood without judgment or pressure. She was the perfect combo of the coolest auntie and the big sister that actually liked you. She even “forgot” to take the Harold Robbins books out of the spare room when I was old enough to be curious about boys.

Gill never talked to me like I was a child. Come to think of it, she never talked to Robert, Jamie, or the Cub Scouts like they were kids either. She had the gift of talking to you like she was absolutely confident that you were already everything she believed you could be. Part acceptance and part encouragement. Although I was on another continent when I had my son, I like to think that the closeness in my relationship with him has much to do with the example she and Colin set.

The first time we talked about the return of her cancer, Gill handled it with typical aplomb. Well, she said, time to enjoy wearing the good knickers. Even as time counted down, she told me of the transitions in her life as Parables of the Knicker Drawer. Wearing the good ones now (don’t delay or deny yourself life’s best parts). Finally chucked the ones with the loose elastic (don’t spend time with people that don’t make you feel good). Must tidy the damn drawer out so as not to leave that mess for my boys (take care of the ones you love the most).

How perfect it was that on the day I learned she left us, I was wearing an uncomfortable pair of knickers that had somehow escaped the rubbish bin. I chucked them at the end of the day. Thank you for teaching me right up to the end, Gill.

(My dear friend Gill Harding left us on June 22, 2011, at the too young age of 63. She is survived by husband Colin, sons Robert and Jamie, and countless other people who love her.)

Showing my stuff

Lucky me, I get to show my stuff again. The lovely people at 643 Project Space in Ventura offered me a show, so I took them up on it. You can find the details here:
http://www.samhunterart.com/pages.php?content=news.php&navGallID=News

For the West Coast peeps, it is a chance for you to see (up close and personal) a good portion of the work that earned me my MFA. For the East Coasters, you've seen most of it before, so while you are missing out on the shortbread, you've already seen the art.

I will also be rolling out a new project, something that requires interaction from the folks in the gallery. Instructions and materials will be provided. If you can't make it to the opening and you still want to participate, please shoot me your mailing address in a private email (along with the names of two colors you like) and I will send you a kit.

Let the party commence!

Vote with your feet

Blake Gopnik, in the Washington Post, writes a couple of smart paragraphs about a piece of art being pulled from a show after a group kicked up a fuss. He makes a few great points.... that the role of the museum is to broaden our scope, and that the role of the curator is to bring together works that challenge us to think, to form opinion, to accept or reject. He also points out that the appropriate form of rejection is to walk away, to withdraw your attention - not to censor or demand censorship. We've gone to war with countries that censor their people heavily, because such lacks of freedom are contrary to the ideals these United States were founded upon.

Think about it... when our interest in a TV show wanes, the series gets canceled. Same goes for any consumer product - think ThighMaster, or then again, maybe don't :-)

Museums are full of art... some great, some not so. If you don't like something, folks, just walk away. There's bound to be something you do like in the next room.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/11/30/AR2010113007227.html?wprss=rss_print/style

Image: Ed Ruscha's OOF, 1962/3, in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, NY. Photo by Sam Hunter.

Finally

My web site is finally up and live, after much wrangling, hand-wringing, and extraordinarily colorful language - and we all know how much I love color! It has only been two years since I bought the domain name.

It has been one heck of an education. I would love to say that I programmed it myself but I bailed on that once I realized that I should stick to what I'm good at, and pay money to people who are good at other things like designing sites!

You can find the site here: www.samhunterart.com

It's home to images of most of the art I've made in the last half dozen years. Well, the good stuff, anyway. Let me know what you think (especially if I made a spelling mistake!)

Bilingual

I’ve always considered art to be a language of communication. Sometimes I make art just for the pure joy of playing with orange fabric, but most of the time it’s because I’m trying to articulate something. Like language, art has formal rules and structures, made to be followed, ignored, or flat out rebelled against. They both evolve with their generations, subtracting obsolete phrases and adding new colloquialisms as needed to fulfill their need to say something, to communicate.

We make words when we need them. I love the German fondness for creating wildly descriptive compound words: “the-pants-with-the-pockets-made-of-blue-cotton” kind of words. I also love the American fondness for creating humorous contractions like “bro-mance” that, in their tight shorthand, tell us volumes about the depth of the friendship between the men the word refers to.

You may ask why make art if we have words? Surely we can express ourselves adequately with the richness of our language, right? And, indeed, our language is rich. Consider the myriad ways to discuss the blue of the sky. Deep, cloudless, summer blue. The cold gray-blue of a frosty winter morning. The foreboding grey-blue that says a storm is coming. The clean, sweet blue after it has passed. Yet despite such range, language can still fail – just think back to the last high stakes misunderstanding you had with a loved one, where it was mostly about one of you assuming that the other meant THIS with those words, when what was really meant was THAT.

And then there is the noise, the cacophony of mass media in a busy life. Buy this, buy that. Vote for this, vote for that. Look at this, be shocked by that. Worry about this, fret about that. And so, with a nod to Guy Debord, in the midst of this spectacle clamoring for our attention we tune out, turn off. Only something really big, or really different, might make us look up, take notice. And this is where I think art can function most powerfully. It can deliver the same message in faceted detail or laser focused precision. Through its imagery, design, and color, it can shout all the words that we can no longer hear, not to mention say all the words that we might be afraid to speak out loud. Art can turn a short story into an epic, and deliver a deeply complicated concept in a one-liner. It can translate all that noise into the clear, ringing peal of a bell. In short, art speaks.

And so in the middle of the media’s attention to gay suicides and teen bullying, the humanizing magazine photos and slickly designed infographics, the viral video “It Gets Better” campaigns and the topical plot lines of TV series such as Glee, I offer you this piece of art by David Wojnarowicz: Untitled (One Day This Kid…)

(With thanks to P.P.O.W, the Estate of David Wojnarowicz, the Trevor Project, and Tyler Green).