Look Who's Coming!

I can't wait to introduce you to each of the artists joining us at The Ground Floor Gallery for Woman. Hair. Power.  

This exhibit is also the launch of Joie de Vivre's event series.  I've been known to host a good gathering and it's about time I expand my guest list.  So when I witnessed Rebecca Drolen's photography in Beautiful/Decay Magazine, I searched high and low and found her teaching young image makers in Nashville, Tennessee.

To my delight, she was thrilled to offer our gallery the opportunity to West Coast Premiere her latest work Hair Pieces. 

Drolen juxtaposes domestic relics with symbols of beauty and memory to tell a narrative of desire vs shame, life vs death in our relation to body hair.

In her own words, these photographs "function as both visual puns and, at times, as social critique."

Her portraits are all at once alluring and freakish, causing the viewer to linger and indulge in her curiosities.

Rebecca Drolen's images will be on display March 29th, 2014 as part of the group art exhibit Woman. Hair. Power.  

Tickets are available HERE.

Voodoo on a Stick

Like many strange children before me, I suffered through elementary school.  I loved learning and was often the Teacher's doll.  To the kids around me though, I was anything but cute.  They considered me a freak of nature.  A weirdo.  I was taunted with names like "Voodoo on a Stick" and "Four Heads."  All because I was rail thin with a big head and even bigger eyes.  

So when my seven-year-old reported that she defended Christopher T. against some bullies, my heart went racing with pride. My daughter is champion of the outcasts!  A friend to the misfits!  These are the things I told myself.

I imagined Christopher T., this boy with a slue-foot, bestowing gratitude on my kid for coming to his rescue.  Weeks went by with increasing conversations about Christopher.  When she bragged about beating him in a race, I thought, 'Girl Power!'  I was glad she finished first, even if he did have a draggy foot.  

Soon she declared she and Chris were best friends.  And somehow they now shared emotions.  "Today was the worst day of our lives," she said after they both lost their reading charms.  

"Our daughter is a sensitive soul," I told my husband.

When the hubby went to volunteer at school, I got a call from the yard.  

"Christopher T. is a distraction to our kid."

"The slue-footed boy?"

"No!  You got the wrong one.  This boy does not have a slue-foot."

When I went to gather her later that day, the Playground Supervisor pulled me aside.

"I wanted to tell you that Chris T. would play basketball every day after school.  Now all he does is hang out with your kid.  It's quite cute."

"Who is this boy?" I asked.

 "Chris!" the Supervisor yelled.

Chris T. turned.  In slow motion it seemed.  My question answered.  This was Boy Wonder.

I sighed deeply.  Probably my longest exhale ever.  My brain was not prepared for the real Christopher. 

"Oh," I said to the Supervisor.

"Yep," she replied.

The Supervisor rubbed my shoulders soothingly.

Maybe one day my daughter will make my 'hero of the weird bunch' tale come true.  

Until then, I've got my eye on Christopher T.

What Not to Teach Your Kids This Black History Month

Every year we find a way to screw up the Black History Lessons we teach our offspring.  I believe in the importance of educating children in the cultural contributions of our forefolk.  But how do you properly teach lynching to a little kid?  

I sugarcoat way too much already.  The Tooth Fairy. The Binky Fairy. Old Saint Nick.  I don't want my babies to grow up and discover that I've done nothing but make shit up their entire lives.  So I try to teach the cold, hard facts of America's fine past in a child friendly manner.  I try, but sometimes it backfires.

Take for instance, when my teenager was 8 years old we read this book together...

When she asked if she could share it in school, I was delighted.  "Of course!  It's Black History Month.  Why Not?"  Her elementary at the time was about 6% African American.  What greater way to chat up old times than in an academic setting?

We brought the book to school the very next day and spoke with her teacher.  Mrs. Funaki, visibly hesitant, pulled a chair to the front of the class.  My kid sat, opened Toni Morrison and paraphrased the subtext out loud to her classmates:

"Back in the day, back in the day White people were crazy!"

She then showed a picture that looked something like this...

Photograph Don Hogan Charles/The New York Times

Imagine a class full of gaping-mouthed third graders.  Imagine the conversations they had with their parents after school.  Imagine how the teacher avoided eye contact with me the rest of the school year.

There must be a kid friendlier way to tackle the sordid portions of our past.  

How does your family approach Black History?