Bigfoot, Grandma Moses, & Mud

A creative life, one paycheck at a time.

Hello friends.

I’ve missed this place and all of you.

I wonder about all of you out there. How are you? Did you sleep well last night? Are your feet cold? Do you feel utterly devastated by the world we live in and simultaneously in awe of its beauty?

Perhaps you are like me. You wake in the morning, grateful for the warmth of a bed, cats tangled at your feet, and the rhythmic rasping of cedar branches sliding across the roof. You breathe deeply, transitioning from slumber to wakefulness, taking in the small world of your bedroom, stretching your toes and wiggling them playfully to antagonize the cats.

And then, it hits you: Palestine, Israel, Ukraine, climate collapse, the unhoused, income inequality, abortion access, the presidential election in 2024, nonexistent health care, aging parents, and an anxious child. You breathe deeply again, attempting to ground yourself in the present. This works for a few minutes. Then you sit up in bed, retrieve your phone from the bedside table, and open the NY Times. You know you shouldn’t, you know it will only intensify your despair, and yet you don’t stop yourself. You scan the headlines, catching a horrifying glimpse of a tiny raised fist— a baby in Gaza reaching through a pile of rubble. You are leveled. You close the app, tears streaming down your face. It is 5:13 in the morning.

You shuffle downstairs to feed the cats who are blissfully unaware of the depravity of war. All they know is that morning means a bowl of dry kibble and a gloppy scoop of something called “gravy lovers” that brings them to meowing ecstasy. You heat water for tea, challenging yourself to look out the window instead of checking Instagram. You succeed for a few minutes, marveling at the piles of tiny sticks the white oak dropped during the blustery night. And then, in what can only be described as a zombie-like state, you crumple into the impulse. You pick up your phone again. You mechanically open Instagram, even though your feed is an algorithmic wasteland populated with reels of strangers organizing fridges, homesteaders milling corn, and people screaming at each other at a protest. You close the app and put down your phone again. You finish your tea and decide that you need to swim.

You put on your bathing suit, gather your towel, goggles, ear plugs, swim cap, and flip flops, and head to the pool. You drive there because it is sideways raining and very dark outside, and because you can. You feel lazy and guilty as you start the car.

At the pool you are greeted cheerfully by the same women who always work the early morning shift. You smile at them, wishing them well, and basking in the warmth of their friendliness. You jump in the pool and you swim, and you swim. Each breath is a meditation. You thank the water, you thank your body, you thank your incredible fortune to be here, in this pool, gliding through water and not in a war zone.

You grab your kickboard for a cool down, forcefully averting your gaze while the guy in the see-through, flesh-colored Speedo stands at the end of the lane and stretches in the grossest way possible for waaaay too long. After your swim, you drive home past sodden tent camps, blue and brown tarps pulling against the wind. You force yourself to not avert your eyes, to look and to see, to allow the full force of your feelings to upwell and eddy. You feel helpless and overwhelmed. You are holding your breath. You remind yourself to breathe. You cannot fix this today.

Back home the rest of the house is stirring. Breakfasts are made, floors swept, baskets of laundry ferried up from the basement. You take comfort in these small tasks. They command your attention long enough to divert your thoughts back towards the things you can touch and see around you: plants that need watering, beds that need to be made, emails to be answered, and the work and logistics of the day.

It is 8:30 in the morning.

I’ve spent the last few months since my last post working a random assortment of jobs and throwing mud around in the ceramics studio. My membership at a community pottery studio began the same week that war broke out in the Middle East. The healthiest way to process my grief seemed to be spending every possible spare moment with my hands in clay. And so I packed up the tools I’d squirreled away in the basement and I set to work. I allowed myself to be consumed, swallowed up in the act of creation.

I made a ton of work. It looked like this:

And then I sold it all. And that felt really good. Now I am making new work, and it looks like this:

Wanna buy some? Let me know!

During October I listened to Rick Rubin’s book The Creative Act: A Way of Being twice in a row. I played it as I walked, worked, and cleaned — absorbing it like a mantra. As I listened, I thought about how I developed a creative practice, and how I’ve maintained it through the years.

I cannot remember the specific words Mr. Hoffman, my 7th-grade art teacher, wrote on the bottom right corner of my careful rendering of a Converse high top, but they were not kind. He was a brittle man who favored the boys in the class (there were rumors) and reserved withering remarks for the students who did not meet his opaque standards. For the remainder of the year, I watched out of the corner of my eye as he heaped praise on a precious few (boys), inviting them to participate in helping to paint the murals that lined the outer walls of our school—fairly accurate reproductions of the Western art canon—and caustically reprimanded the rest of us for our relentless artistic shortcomings.

I knew I was not great at drawing, but I wanted to be. My mom even started a creative arts camp for me and my friends during the summer, and eventually, we became the counselors. I made stuff all the time, and it was quirky and colorful. My house was full of art and books; I was dragged to museums, plays, and experimental dance performances. Art appreciation was embedded in my upbringing, but I wasn’t sure how you actually became an artist. Clearly photorealistic drawing was never going to be my thing, and that’s the skill I most associated with being an artist.

In high school, my ceramics teacher, Mr. Head (I am not making this up), spent more time in the kiln room — an outside area behind the classroom—than he did teaching us how to throw on the wheel. Rumor was that he was back there smoking joints and slowly loading and unloading the same kiln over and over again. He left a large group of 15 and 16-year-olds to our own devices, assuming that we’d somehow pick up the complex skill of wheel throwing by osmosis. I did not. I cannot recall a single word of instruction from him. What I do remember is failing over and over, and then sweet-talking my neighbor, Rich Prillinger (thanks, Rich!), who had an immediate talent for centering, into making my pieces for me. If my memory serves me, Rich became an airline pilot. I became an art teacher.

During the first quarter of my freshman year of college, I enrolled in an introductory drawing class. Or, at least I thought I did. When I arrived on the first day, people were spilling out of the studio. I was told my enrollment was conditional and that because of the high demand for the course, the only way I’d be allowed into the class was to declare art as my major. Overwhelmed and not ready to declare anything about my life, I gave up on the class and took the History of Jazz instead. I earned my first “C” ever in the class and ended up majoring in modern European history. I never attempted to take another art class during the four years I was there.

But something inside of me never shut the fuck up. I wanted to make things. I loved to write, read, and analyze, but my body and my mind ached to range free. I made little attempts to feed this part of myself: enrolling in dance classes where I felt woefully out of place (I never had the right leg warmers or properly sexy leotards with the swoopy backs), making mixed tapes and collages that I sent to friends, and always taking photos. But nothing really stuck until I moved to Berkeley and started dating a guy who was attending California College of the Arts. I observed carefully as he worked on his sculptures, accompanying him to junkyards, and wandering around Oakland looking at everything. And gradually I realized that I could just decide to make things — without anyone else’s permission. Whether I was talented or good at it was beside the point.

Eventually, I moved to San Francisco, enrolled at San Francisco City College, and took my first printmaking class. The process of learning intaglio printmaking processes; of etching drawings into metal, and following the precise steps of inking and printing, completely enraptured me. I fell in love. Or, more specifically, I felt what it was like to be in creative flow for the first time, and printmaking was the first conduit to that feeling.

For 20 years I channeled that feeling into a career. I taught ceramics, painting, art history, drawing, book arts, filmmaking, photography, and the history of film. I made art happen for other people. And on the weekends, and during the summer, I made some of my own. But never enough.

A random assortment of things I made over the years…

I consider myself on the Grandma Moses trajectory — just getting started in my creative life. Now that I’m no longer channeling all of that energy into my students, I can follow my creative impulses. When I am in my 80’s, I hope to be making work that represents my skill and a singular vision. In the meantime, I’ll keep fucking around and finding out. And when I’m not doing that, I’ll figure out a way to make money. Somehow.

Here’s a list of some of the ways I’ve made money since our return to Portland:

• Helping a friend storyboard a documentary about epigenetics and maternal health

• Cleaning out basements

• Writing grants & artist statements

• Teaching creative play to 3, 4, and 5-year-olds in three different preschool classrooms each week

• Copywriting for a few different clients

• Selling my ceramics (you can buy ‘em directly from me, or they can be found here, and soon, here)

Do I sound like a 22-year-old scrambling to make ends meet? Yes. Are my days often a cobbled-together jumble of meetings, emails, interactions with 3-year-olds wielding white glue, chats about glaze viscosity with my pals at the pottery studio, and pee breaks when I want? Yes. Do I miss my life being governed by a bell schedule? No. Do I miss grading, after-school meetings, parent emails, and commuting to Beaverton? No? Do I sometimes miss discussions about movies, art, philosophy, or string theory with teenagers? Yes. But honestly, not that much. Luckily I’ve got a teen kicking around the house, lathering herself in facial serums, playing her music so loudly the windows rattle, and blowing my mind with her insights about human nature.

Do I miss financial security? Yes. But that’s a discussion for another time.

Do I miss Italy? Yes. Yes. Yes. And that is all I can say without my chest hurting and feeling short of breath and wondering what the hell I am doing sitting here in muddy and grey Portland when one year ago I was there, traveling by boat in the lagoon with the weak winter sun warming my cheeks. Was that even my life? At this point, it doesn’t even feel real.

Do you know who is real? Yup.

And I’ve been writing. But I published nothing. With every attempt I found myself slipping into territory that felt too vulnerable for a social media space. The internet seems to be an especially treacherous place right now. I want to believe that the impulse to use social media to voice dissent is a way to feel as if one is making an impact. To feel impotent and powerless in the face of so much violence is soul-crushing. Unfortunately, I think it has the opposite effect, shutting down actual communication and rupturing relationships. I do not think that there is any viable path toward liberation and peace for any of us if we destroy our chances at real communication and repair in our own families and communities.

Instead, I’ve been focusing on what Adrienne Maree Brown writes about in Emergent Strategies, “Small is good, small is all.” Getting down to the business of prioritizing meaningful work in our area of influence: our homes, our schools, and our communities. For me, that meant finally getting trained as a Restorative Justice facilitator. My scattered employment this fall offered me a window of opportunity to complete an intensive training, and in November I started on my first case.

In September I spent a very sweaty week hunched over in a folding chair in a windowless room in East Portland with a group of 8 other trainees and a group of experienced facilitators, many of whom were formerly incarcerated. For 35 hours we talked about violence, conflict, the science of our brains, human behavior, and how to repair harm. During our last two days, we practiced facilitating sample cases in front of a group of experienced facilitators. It was amazing.

And, not to brag (I’m about to brag), but apparently I am “a natural.” But I’m not actually a natural. I’ve been building the skills necessary for this work for years. I completed a training for Restorative Practices in the schools about a decade ago, and it completely transformed my teaching. I changed everything about the way my classroom operated, including how I showed up in that space. I dedicated myself to non-violent communication. I did as much as I could to take my ego out of the work— or, as much as my ego would let me at the time.

To utilize this aspect of my professional expertise and hopefully impact my community in positive ways seems like a great use of my time. But of course, it doesn’t pay. (Because why would we compensate work that repairs harm and makes our communities stronger?) Instead, I will continue to hustle to figure out how to make enough money to afford health care and not shit my pants when I am quoted the cost of teeth cleaning at my yearly visit to the dentist. And, I will volunteer my time because I have more of it now.

This month I am also doing an intensive mediation training and beginning a program to become certified as a death doula. All of this is leading me toward an end that I haven’t yet fully sketched out. I’m wending my way towards something new and different, and that’s both scary and good. It all feels precarious and full of potential. I worry about money constantly, but I no longer feel trapped. And, I get to make art.

And that’s all for now.

Sending love,

xo, Belle

Hot Links:

An oldie but a goodie. When I’m stuck, I often refer back to Learning to Love You More a list of prompts/projects written by Miranda July and Harrell Fletcher. There are so many great ideas in here to get you thinking, making, conspiring, and out into the world.

VASTER WILDS by Lauren Groff. This is a gorgeous, spare, and affecting book. I LOVED it. I read a lot of books in the past few months, but this is the one that sticks with me.

A meal that is infinitely variable and a crowd-pleaser. In our house, we call it “rice bowl.” Make rice. Any kind. I prefer short-grained sushi rice. Also, if you don’t already own a rice cooker, what are you even doing with your life? While the rice is cooking, steam, stir fry, or roast any veggies you have on hand. For us, that’s usually broccoli, zucchini, carrots, cabbage, etc. Do as many or as few as you want. Or, dice some raw carrots and cucumber. Then take a block of firm or extra firm tofu and wrap it in a dish towel to remove some of the water. Cut it up any way you like. Heat two tablespoons of neutral oil in a pan on med/high. Toss tofu in a mixture of cornstarch and Japanese Furikake seasoning. When tofu is fully coated, put it in the hot pan and fry it until golden on each side. Don’t rush the process. Meanwhile, make your sauces. Our current go-to is Kewpie mayo + sriracha or sambal + soy. You can also make a soy/rice vinegar/sambal sauce. Or, Japanese salad dressing (mayo, sesame oil, seasoned rice vinegar, ginger (not required). Or, really, any combo of those ingredients. Assemble everything artfully in the bowl. Allow everyone to put whatever sauces (plus hot condiments: chili crunch, Fly by Jing, sriracha, etc.) they want on it. Sprinkle liberally with sesame seeds. And if you’re feeling super fancy, tuck a couple of sheets of seaweed into the mix.

The Quiet Girl. I loved this film very, very much. It does SO much with so little. It’s stayed with me in a good way.

This article, In the Shadows of the Holocaust: How the politics of memory in Europe obscures what we see in Israel and Gaza today, by the brilliant Masha Gessen, best expresses what I haven’t been able to. It’s a long piece, and I urge you to read to the end, where she manages to thread the needle of holding multiple truths, while not excusing or denying any of them.

And, the trash:

Saltburn: Dark, British, and deliciously trashy. Gorgeously shot and fun to watch. My north star of film critics, Wesley Morris (aka: the man with the greatest contemporary mustache), didn’t care for it at all. But I’m ok with that.

Love Has Won: The Cult of Mother God: a fascinatingly trashy documentary about a new-age cult deeply committed to colloidal silver and downloading heavenly messages from Robin Williams.