Faith: The Madonna

Our Mother Mary.

Another nice aspect about homecomings are the natural similarities 
we feel in the surroundings we grew up with. There are a dearth of Catholics in my hometown, and I didn't really feel the impact of 
that until I moved to the Mid West, where there's a religion called "Christianity" that's about as wacky and dissimilar to Roman Catholicism as a glass of tap water with ice cubes from your freezer 
is to an iceberg: both elemental, but as different as forms of water 
that one can get.

Here, I see signs of my faith everywhere, in the form of something we call "Madonna in a bathtub", because years ago, people submerged a bathtub into the ground and put a statue of Mary in the center of the arch the tub created, to symbolize visions of her in a grotto (ex:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Lourdes). Nowadays, they handily sell statues with a pretty eggshell blue background background (Mary's color), which saves Catholics quite a bit of work.

As I walk around, it's nice to know that I can save myself a bit of work too, on lengthy explanations. I'm not naturally loquacious. It was something I worked hard to learn in school and then develop on the job over the years because I had to, in order to explain the sometimes extraordinarily difficult concepts I deal with daily. I'm naturally shy, so whenever I can say something with an image over hours of sometimes wasted talk, I'm happy to go with that instead.  

Silence is a great blessing.

Got faith? Me, too: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/faith/.

Street Art: Fortune Teller

Doctor Killgore ain't real.

Don't trust this Ouija board, kids. That email address is fake! 
How dare they?! For the real deal, look here: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/street-art-sacred-spaces/.

Nature: Thunderstorms

Yellow sky after thunderstorm.

Birds on wire.

Do you know that yellow color that seeps into the sky right before and right after a solid rain with thunderstorms? Got it.

Nature lovers and other fans of Mother Nature, seek me out here: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/nature/.

Movies: Gopher It

You realize this means war.

One of our best-loved comedies as kids was Caddyshack. My oldest brother worked at a local country club in high school that's a golfer's paradise. Me, my middle bro, and our cousin got bored one afternoon at an older cousin's wedding, held conveniently on a golf course. Without too much thought or planning, we jacked a golf cart for a joy ride around the grounds that was the height of the day, if not for the summer of that year. We still laugh about it, and I remember the outfit I wore: a waitress-inspired preteen dress separate, with white polka dots on a grey background, pink trimmings on the collar and sleeves that mimicked the rolled up ones of real diner outfits. 

Tragically, one of my mother's oldest school friends from her old neighborhood in the Bronx died suddenly from head trauma as the result of falling out of a golf cart onto a rock while riding with her husband around their Arizona golf community's grounds. Even though none of us are avid golfers, golf courses and greens seems to run a current through our family's lives, and that's just what the movie is about: working class Irish Catholics looking to break through to WASPY society and its' supposed access to wealth and benefits. Some of us figured out a long time ago that money ain't the only way to a dream, and some of us still feel that money is a ticket out of dysfunction to a better life, and that's what the exclusivity of a country club promises to them; proof that they've finally "made it". 

My mom loved the gopher from the movie the best, and he no doubt is a scene stealer: a cute, cuddly, rascally troublemaker who ruins golf paradise by simply showing up to do what gopher's do. She loves his little dances and song skits so much, that when I saw an animatronic doll that's a a dead ringer for the movie version, I bought it as a gag Christmas gift immediately. She loved it! All these years later, the darn thing still works. One of my nephews was terrified by it as a baby, and we still laugh about that, too. A doll that looks like a TeddyBear but moves?! Uh uh. Not right. He'd get this wide-eyed suspicious look on his chubby face that was the exact opposite of the intended reaction. Good times.

 

Cinephiles, Culture Vultures, and Couch Potatoes, I got it covered: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/culture-movies-and-t-v/.

Birdhouses: Local Color

Birdhouse in garden.

Birdhouse in orchard.

Birdhouse on arbor.

http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/birdhouses-and-treehouses/

Food: Cinnamon Apple Muffins

Little sour apples.

I found a recipe for apple muffins on the back of a box of pancake mix. It looked really easy to make (and it was), and I had a few small sour apples on the counter that I had picked from a local orchard. 

The muffins came together great, and those little apples still have some snap left in them, even after baking in the batter. Apples and cinnamon go together like bread and butter, and weeks later, I have a few left in the freezer from the original batch of twelve I made.   

A nice set up for fall right?

Apple cinnamon muffins.

Food fan? Same: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/food/.

Bluebell the English Bulldog

Who's that little doggie in the parking lot?

Little Bluebell with the big personality.

I first met Bluebell walking to the library. I noticed a dog sitting in a window seat often, in a house behind the local funeral home. One day I saw a little white bulldog sitting outside, looking up at another dog sitting in the window seat of the house, in a way that seemed like teasing. I called out "Hey! What are you doing?" and then the white dog started racing across the parking lot in spurts, stopping then starting, with me giggling nervously but also enjoying the show. Then a man with a handlebar mustache came out, shouting and calling to the dog, which made it take off in a tear towards me, jumping right over a small hedge easily, surprising for a doggie with such short legs. I shouted out "Is he friendly?" He said "She's a girl! Very!" I noticed she had a pink dog collar as she tried to bite into my shoe, snuffling around my ankles. When he came closer, she jumped back over the hedge, circled around his legs a few times while he chased her, trying to bit his feet, too.
It was really funny.

Belly rubs!

After that, I kept an eye out for her, and one afternoon I noticed the owner sitting outside on a lawn chair, so I went over to say "hello". He told me her name was Bluebell, an English Bulldog, one of two dogs he had. I noticed her big personality right away and told him so. There was also what I thought was an Irish Setter, a long haired Retriever named Highway, lingering near us with a tennis ball in his mouth, trying to engage us in a game of "keep away". When I asked him about his name, he said it came from his favorite Clint Eastwood movie, Heartbreak Ridge, and he asked me if I'd seen it. I couldn't remember if I had or not. He said Bluebell was a lot nicer than his first bulldog, an irascible, grumpy little fellow, but his son loved the breed so much that they got a second one when he died. She was his opposite; gregarious, friendly, endlessly charming, always ready for playtime, attention, and affection. She let herself out of the house often, and she also liked to sunbathe in the parking lot on her leash.

Aww. Puppy face. "Hi Bluebell!"

Haha! Shake it off, Bluebell!

He said it was a shame bulldogs didn't live very long because of the aggressive inbreeding used to create their distinctive looks. 
I understood. My Giant Mal didn't live long, the same as the other snow dogs I had, and that it was harder for us humans than it was for them, because we missed them so much after they were gone. I realized after I said goodbye to my new friend and walked away that I was probably one of the few people in town (if any) to say those consoling words to the town's funeral director, a man who has said them countless times to people in their times of comfort and need. I'm sure the irony wasn't lost on him, either. 

Precious little doggie with sad face :(

Are you a crazy pet person and you know it? I've got your number right here: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/dogs/.

Small Town America: Country Roads

Back road to town.

Bower of branches.

I love old country roads, especially the kind of back roads we have here in the Hudson Valley: winding, curvy tree lined roads, free of traffic, with nothing but a green bower of branches overhead. New York City driving is a thrill of it's own, like something out of a video game; it's fast and stressful and occasionally fun, but real relaxation behind the wheel happens when no one is around to witness it. It's just you, a car, the pavement, and the sky above. That's freedom to many Americans, and small town people know what I mean about the pleasures of an empty rural country road laid out for miles in front of you, without any traffic in front or behind to get into your head.  Relax, and enjoy the ride.

Country road.

Sunday Paper

New York, New York.

Years ago I worked for a local paper out west, relocating to Denver because my then-husband was flailing in the Big Apple, and I wanted to help him if I could. I knew I'd always come home, because my ancestors helped built this town, but also because I never felt like I had to run away from here. Anyway, I was young and ready for adventure at points as yet unknown. The day I said goodbye to Manhattan, I went to Rockefeller Center, Tiffany's and St. Patrick's Cathedral. I remember I leaned on the railing that hung over the empty off-season ice rink, and I said softly to myself "I'll be back", and I meant it.

On the day of the 9/11 attack, I watched in mute silent horror as a plane hit a tower in my beloved city, on a huge bank of tv's in The Denver Post's newsroom. An editor alerted us to the news story coming over the wire. Our studio was right next to The Pit, a slew of desks manned by the enormous editorial team. At first we thought it was a small plane blown off course, because that sometimes happens over the windy tempestuous skies of New York. Years ago, a Yankee ball player with a private pilot's license sheared off course over the East River to do just that: slam into a building unintentionally due to high winds over the river. We talked about the plane crash in the design studio, with me as the conversational lead, because I was the only native New Yorker present with city experience.

Then someone came running in to the studio again "Another tower's been hit! Two planes! It's an attack!" He was smiling and excited. We ran into the newsroom to see the second tower burning and in flames. I put my hands up to cover my mouth. Someone next to me said "She's from New York" and from then on it was like a nightmare in slow motion, because that's how slowly I saw the towers crumble and fall. I cried out I think "no no no no!!" but I don't really remember. The next thing I can recall is that I sat at my desk, numb and shaking. There were no "sorries" from my co-workers, no handshakes, no pats on the back, just a group of out of towners silently walking around me. I said (mostly to myself) "You have no idea how many people just died. You have no idea how big those towers are, how many people they hold, the scale of them unless you've been there and seen it for yourself. You just watched thousands of people die, live on television." I remember the newsroom buzzed with the news, with talks of editorial awards already in the works, layouts being hastily made, phones ringing, people running around, high fiving each other.

This kind of break from the norm is the stuff that news programs dream of, and this event was no exception, except for one person there, and that was me. I tried to talk with another employee I knew; he had a smirk on his face about American retribution, some lefty speech about our comeuppance ready to fly off his lips, solid in the comfort that he had an Asian wife at home, smug in his practiced anti-"The Man" stance, so common of the stereotypical liberal media type used to free lunches and union coverage. After I started talking, the smile slowly faded from his eyes, and finally he realized he should have the decency to be embarrassed, looking down at his desk, bowing his head in shame. Back in the design studio, our ineffectual manager (who rode his way to the top slowly and very gradually, by simply being an union employee who never left his first job out of school) tried to console us: "Ok, OK. I know it's upsetting, but lets' try and get back to work." Right. Because I give two fucks about the garden ad that just crossed my desk. I don't think so.

A few months later, The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News announced that their competitive practices and union shops had bankrupted both papers. Thanks to a US Constitutional Amendment that preserves Freedom of the Press, both papers would consolidate all departments except the editorial ones under a new company called The Denver Newspaper Agency. They offered employees total contractual buyouts; a year's salary paid upfront and health insurance for six months also paid by them, the result of many hours of union negotiations. Later that day, the VP of Production and Design, a handsome, kind, and intelligent older man I'd always liked, stopped by to tell me that the kind of people who left were the kind of people who knew they would make it; it wasn't the worst people who left first, it was always the best, and then he walked away. I was the first person at The Denver Post to opt out of my contract and take the buy out deal on the table. Within a year, I moved back to Brooklyn, with their money in my pocket.

This story from my life is my gift to you, New York.

Street Art: Disco Sucks

 

Slayer Rules in Rockland County, or at least it did.

When I was a young teen, there were two camps in the tri-state area: rockers and disco-loving Guido's. I actually love to dance to a strong beat, and I love the sound electric guitars make, so I didn't have tribal affiliations to either side. Nonetheless, the divide was deep. You were either a dance "fag" or a rocker, and kids were forced to choose sides in my house to avoid taunts. 

Ice cream, rock tees, boat rides, and family history

My brothers were (naturally) metal guys in their teens, sensitive to hints of "gayness", so it was a powerful card in my back pocket if they got out of line with me. If I wanted to get under their skin quickly, all I had to do was tune into to a "gay" disco station and turn it up. We had cheap doors with easy locks that could be turned with a thumbnail to open quickly, and that's exactly what they did if I dared to play offensive music; open my door and forcibly turn the dial on my old stereo I inherited from my godfather, complete with 8 track player.

I see Doucettes (live and dead) everywhere.

In retaliation, I had to do pathetically little. I loved their t-shirt collection (I still love mens' shirts) because their boxy square cuts went great over 80s clothes, like leggings and tight jeans, and I would often take their shirts out of their drawers to wear when they weren't around, which infuriated them. The one musical tradition we all agreed upon as siblings (and still do) is that the Stones rule. I mean it. We believe in The Rolling Stones the way a guido needs hair gel before leaving his house. Yeah, that badly. And we were right. They've withstood the hands of time to dominate the rock scene the way few other rock bands have, except for U2, another band I discovered foraging through record stores on trips to the city. I grabbed a single to their first hit "Gloria" because I knew I was hearing something powerful and raw, and I was right about that, too. I would go on to design CD's for musicians and bands in a post-production studio in Colorado, that's how good an ear I have for audio. I know quality when I hear it, and I know shit, too.

Acadians in Nova Scotia.

Rummaging through some photos on my mom's bookcase, I found photos of a story about my history that I tell sometimes to friends about how I wore a black and white-sleeved Stones concert shirt (which were all the rage back then) that my brothers outgrew on our history tour to Nova Scotia during the early 80s because we're Acadian (not my mom; too bad for her!). It was the first time I was there, and it was epic: just like one of my ancestors, I almost died on the boat ride there. It was a 8 hour trip across the Bay of Fundy from Maine, the roughest waters in the Atlantic. I threw up for most of it, and so did my mom, and so did many others because the bathrooms were outfitted with cots. I said to my mom "If this boat sinks, I won't even care", so bad was my mal de mer. My brothers sporadically threw up over the side of the ferry because my Canuck Dad (also ex-Navy) insisted that they would be fine on deck in the fresh air. At least I had some privacy in the ladies room.

Disco sucks and now you know, too.

These were some of the things I thought about when I saw rocker scratchitti in a bench in the local park, made years ago by boys not unlike the men in my family: tribally loyal, fierce, vulnerable, brave, rockers to the core, though now open to other music occasionally, two of them still playing guitars (both acoustic and electric) to rock music.  

 What do you see in your hometown that takes you back?

People of the streets, check this out: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/street-art-sacred-spaces/.

Potting Sheds, Tiny Studios, and Other Delights

Little blue house next to the "Mommy" house.

Check out this adorable little house that sits next to the bigger "parent" house, a local fine dining restaurant that's been around since I had friends in high school who waitressed. Yeah, that long. So cute!

Painting studio

This will appeal to any artist, crafter, or carpenter with two hands (or maybe just one that works well, but you're still creating): the space to do it. I've tried to incorporate studio space within every home I have, and it is very hard to do. You need tons of natural light, time alone, and space to work. The fact that they turned this tiny back house into an actual business cheers me.

Wee gardening shed? Done!

This baby garden shed is every little girls' dream. Think of the tea parties with Teddy Bears you could have. So adorable, I'm done.

Neighborhood gem.

I often walk past this beauty, and the way it peeks out of the shrubbery at different angles just kills me. It's a small house with big personality; can't beat that.

Cabin in the park.

The local hidden park (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2013/08/gardens-dr-henry-v-borst-park.html) has this rustic log cabin that reminds me of Scout hikes on the Adirondack trail, with  campfires and marshmallows roasting on sticks. I have no idea why the good doctor built it, but it's funny that's it's still here in his old grounds.

Got any good cottages in your area? If not, take heart. I've got a beauty collection of them right here: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/cottages/.

This week in TYPE

It was a rich week for me with type. 
I found great examples almost everywhere I went: the label on a cute stuffed animal, crafts displayed at the local library, the nameplate of a dentist at a professional office building, and 
a killer edition of ESPN magazine devoted to the sports of boxing, MMA, and wrestling. What's NOT fun about Lucha Libre?!

 

What kind of 
visual week did you have?

 
Yo, check it: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/type/.

Art: The Study of Light

Ray of light on wall.

Art is the science of light moving over the surface of objects; refracting, reflecting, beautifully bouncing light.  

Sunset in room with blinds.

The study of vision and the observation of how light moves and changes form the core of any art and design curriculum, along with color theory, composition, and perspective.  

Sunrise through curtains.

So the next time someone at a cocktail party tries to tell you that "all art is subjective" to justify their poor taste in art, or maybe just to be a contrary know-it-all, refer them to me. I'll take them to school.  

Bus stop reflection.

What kind of art do you like?

For fellow art fans, I have a board for that: http://pinterest.com/mariedoucette/art/.

Light in play with the artist.

"She's Crafty!" "Who?"

"Who?" Paper doll cut outs!

I love making small paper crafts, (always have), and I probably always will. I cut these fun critters out of a tissue box and made them into stand up paper dolls, maybe for Halloween decorations, but for now, I love them perched on top of a bookcase, cheerfully peering down.

Ditto for coloring. Dover makes a series of adult coloring books that are mind blowing good: Buddhist mandalas and Rosette stained glass windows, hardly kiddie fare. (see some of them here: http://store.doverpublications.com/0486497925.html). 

Recent studies have shown what I knew to be true during my school years, many of which were dull and repetitive: doodling while listening actually helps our brains absorb information better. For more fascinating facts, read about it here: http://content.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1882127,00.html.

I've adapted it as a useful tool for business meetings, too, with the same excellent results; brilliant, accurate recall by a background part of my brain that's for processing unimportant data, while I concentrate on a much more important task at hand: making beautiful art (or not), or creating designs, or maybe some scribbled type or concepts for layouts. It doesn't matter, because it all comes from the same great place: creativity meeting intelligence.  

Have fun with it, and see where it takes you.

Are you crafty, and that's just your type? Check out these crafts and enjoy:http://pinterest.com/mariedoucette/crafts/.

Nature: Orange Moon

Full moon and clouds.

My mom told me about the big, orange moon outside, so I went outside to look at it. There was a beautiful halo around around the moon, which peaked in and out of passing clouds. I didn't get the actual color with my iPhone's camera, but I did capture some of the magic and mystery of a low hanging full moon looming over head. Enjoy the sights while you can.

http://phys.org/news205146350.html

Birth, School, Work, Death

The concept of "work" has become so distorted from the relentless marketing push that drives modern commerce (which requires the constant ringing of cash machines to stay afloat as an economy), that many individuals maintain someone cannot be "normal" if they don't suffer through another meaningless day at an office, working at a dully repetitive job in a big company run by faceless people with money. That's what they call "life". Think about that for a moment; about how you spend most of your time. I have a vocation: a rich, passionate fulfilling one that is sometimes driven by the necessity for money, but take away the "job", and I'm still an artist and designer who writes, and I always will be, regardless of a whether or not a company pays me for my expertise. In fact, I will continue to develop my skills throughout my life, until the end of my time here on earth. It's a stance and a reality that puts jobs exactly where they belong: not the whole story of who we are. I couldn't fit my entire life into a 9-5 cubicle. Could you?

Instead of being driven in a panicked fashion from one place of employment to another, stop to think about what you would do, and who you would be without a corporation to define you. Is there anything of real value left? If not, why is that? Trust me, when you ponder those questions closely, you'd be surprised how much more respect drives your choices and decisions, in business and in life. Being able to rely on one's instincts (no matter how stressful or difficult life sometimes is) comes from a sense of self-worth that is the real American Dream, not the pre-packaged version sold to you by someone looking to profit from your hands, your mind, and your hard-fought for (and difficultly won) successes. I make work every day, whether or not someone pays me, because that's who I am, and that's what I do, which kind of obliterates old-fashioned concepts like vacations and desk jobs. Think about it, the next time you face an important life decision. Enjoy your time off, laborer.

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lany1mze4V1qbl9u7o1_500.gif

Nature: Hungry Squirrles and Intense Rabbits

Hankering for a hunk of Italian bread.

I was walking home from the library one afternoon to be startled by a squirrel with a huge hunk of Italian bread in its' mouth, dexterously climbing a bush's branches with it locked down in its' mouth. 

Intensely chewing and staring...at you!

I must have had extra special magnetic rays radiating out from me that day, because later on, the local bunny rabbit decided to stand right outside the window of the room where I stay, surprisingly intense in it's stare, chewing vigorously and intently looking at me with a gaze that didn't break after I walked across the room to take a picture. 

"A bird ran into my giant freak-head."

Sometimes having The Patron Saint of Animals (St. Francis) as your main "go-to guy" is a bit unnerving, like Elaine from Seinfeld's bird phobia, provoked by a kamikaze pigeon flight at her "big head" while walking through Central Park. Sometimes I need to dial my pheromones down a bit. What do you attract?

My wolf pack grew by two that day.