Tombstones

In times of life-changing decisions: should I quit what I am doing, should I move from where I am, what should I do; rather than visit my place of worship to look for answers, or consult with friends or family; I sit in a local cemetery among its tombstones. It’s a grand place for an uncommon and out-of-the-ordinary worldview. There, I find a serenity where each “should I,” “could I,” “would I” becomes insignificant.

While traveling I would visit the town’s local cemetery and read each tombstone. I searched for, and sometimes found, advice to age-old questions from others who went before me.

One day I came across a tombstone that read:

"As I was, you now are.

As I am, you will be."*

Long familiar with the quote, I wondered what was the intention of this departed soul. Were these words by which he wished to be remembered, bitter; or, were these words melancholic?

After years of visiting cemeteries I was compelled to speculate what sort of message would I choose to leave for the thousand generations to follow. My family always answers, “Well, we would put Blessed Heart.”

Hmmm… I think I would like something more descriptive. I’m an artist, after all. The problem is, every few years, I change my tombstone’s engraved inscription. [Is that a pun?] Each altered message is an indication of a new attitude.

The first time I gave any thought to my first epitaph, it would have read, in teeny, tiny print, forcing the viewer to bend and squint:

If you can read this, you can kiss my ass.

Oh—those angry years! Yes—indeed. That inscription lasted a long time.

Then there were the years trying to fit three lifetimes into one—Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda. I blame computers and multi-tasking.

I want to be clear about this idea of mine. I don’t want a “Huh” after reading my tombstone. How about a photograph of my self-portrait done in oil? There would be two ideas: one, I was a portrait painter; and two, this is what I looked like. But like Rembrandt, which self-portrait to use? At what age? Sigh… I want something that reflects the woman I had been and the woman I had become. This one lasted only a week. Where’s the message?

For a short while I chose the simple words—Thank You for Life. I was depressed that year. I don’t remember why; perhaps someone dear to me died, and I needed a positive affirmation. That’s the problem with inscriptions, I remember the inscription but forget the purpose.

Another year, there was—Oooops, I Got It All Wrong. Another problem; my cup is always half full and I forget my regrets the following year, if not following day. After all, what is the greatest regret—but not to try at all. And, if for those few moments I get it right, I have been gifted a lifetime to get it wrong.

Then I began to think of other people’s quotes. I seem to like quotes.

Jimmy Hendrix: I think it was he, from his autobiography “No One Gets Out of Here Alive”—stuck for a few years.

Or, Roald Dahl: his quote during his divorce from Patricia Neal, “I would have liked for someone to bring me a cup of tea.” Sort of says it all…

What words to answer future ramblers’ concerns? How to speak to the collective subconscious of various cultures for the next thousand years. [That’s how us artists think.] How many pixels do we need? How many canvases to paint? How many songs to sing? How many buildings to build?

I loved those early tombstone-rambling years, those lone messages unique only to me—how short is life. I have curbed my rambling. I recognize too many names, and come to acknowledge John Donne got it right—no man is an island. We are all connected by a continuous umbilical thread; we, tethered to a common destiny. Possibly my family’s “Blessed Heart,” is the most faithful. It is not what we did, nor what we left behind; but rather, we loved, and were loved in return.

If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not working hard enough.

©Ida Kotyuk, Portrait Painter, MA

www.portraits-oils.com

*     *     *

*Following is one internet comment (in its entirety) regarding the various sources for the above quote: To read additional comments, follow this [link].

http://able2know.org/topic/79058-1

Posted by NF: Thu 3 Jun, 2010 01:19AM

“The earliest known portion of this quote I could find was on the epitaph of Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince of Wales, son of King Edward III.

He passed at the age of 45 on June 8th, 1376. The phrase composes the first two lines of the epitaph upon his tomb in Canterbury Cathedral, Kent, England.

His epitaph read as such:

Such as thou art, sometime was I.

Such as I am, such shalt thou be.

I thought little on th'our of Death

So long as I enjoyed breath.

But now a wretched captive am I,

Deep in the ground, lo here I lie.

My beauty great, is all quite gone,

My flesh is wasted to the bone

Hope this helps!  -NF”

[Thanks, NF — Ida]

URL: http://able2know.org/topic/79058-1

To Teach Art

Those Who Can. Do!

Those Who Can’t. Teach!

I first heard the above quote sometime in college. Those cliché-filled-and-fueled college years, when all-knowing freshman students scorn their professors; a time we believed professors became teachers because they couldn’t make it in the real world.

Interestingly, all the men… hmmm… most of the men in my immediate family marry school teachers, and school teachers are different from the rest of us. A typical Thanksgiving dinner becomes an unending litany of instructions, beginning with our entry at the front door.

“Take off your coat, hang it on that third hook. No! Not that one, the third hook. Sit in that chair over there. Not that one, the closer red one… .”

So it would go until the buffet line started.

“Pick up the plate, take a napkin. No. Not that napkin. Help yourself to… .”

Boy-oh-boy, Kotyuk men sure like bossy women.

Is it true teachers can’t do and doers can’t teach? Is this a cliché with an element of truth or a myth waiting to be debunked?

Subsequently, I had the opportunity to teach, one hour a week, within various elementary schools. I taught drawing for Young Rembrandts, an after-school program. A discipline that adheres to the idea to teach drawing fundamentals by rote. That is, teaching future visual artists is similar to teaching the alphabet to future writers.

Ah… my classes. Within that hour, my students ranged from 5-year olds to 12-year olds. A disadvantageous age range because a 5-year-old child’s needs are different from a 12-year old child’s needs. Particularly as a 12-year old begins to believe they know everything there is to know.

It was easy to pick out those students who were there for their mother or father and not because they had an interest in drawing. Or, their interest had more to do with copying what the teacher had done, than learning the process of drawing.

What an education...

How do I enthuse students to draw what they see. I found myself caught up in “oiling the squeaky wheel.” That is, spending my time on the slower students, my pet peeve of other teachers [and employers]. That wide age range kept me on my toes, because children will always test and push you.

I taught drawing for 18 months and learned—I loved to teach. What joy to show a child the skills and tools to draw.

I immersed myself in various methods to present analytical thinking. How to translate three-dimensional images onto a small two-dimensional surface. What a breathless experience; to see a mind grow and expand with different routes to age-old drawing problems.

But, in the process, I found myself forced to choose between preparing for class or preparing a canvas; forced to interrupt my flow of ideas, where I am in that painting, and where I wanted to go. At that moment in my studio, flowing with ideas (and more often than not, struggling); regardless of what I was doing, I must leave to teach.

To return to the above cliché, I learned two valuable lessons during those 18 months.

First, children need precise direction. Put your coat on THAT hook. Take YOUR name tag and PLACE it in front of you at THAT desk. Sit in THAT chair. Use THAT paper. Etc., Etc.

Well—now I sound like my sisters-in-law.

Secondly, when I taught, there was very little mental energy left over. It is what I call “loss of psychic space” in my brain. In the free crevices of time during my day, rather than face a blank or half-finished canvas with “fiddle-fart” ideas, my time was spent on how best to reach a particular student to better understand how to draw.

Teaching was eating into my studio time. Eating into my psychic brain, my psychic space, and my psychic time. And so, I had to make an either/or choice. I couldn’t do both. Artists need a lifetime to grow within their area of expertise. Dancers and athletes spend years preparing for a two-hour performance or game. In the Olympics, your performance lasts only three or more minutes. That “eye-on-the-prize” focus cannot be split. For those few moments of “getting it right” we need years to get it wrong.

But, thanks to those little hellions, er… children, those 18 months changed me into a different artist—one whose perceptions were influenced by the world-view of 5-to-12-year olds; and, hopefully, I am a more understanding sister-in-law, as well.

If you get fewer than 2,000 rejections a year, you are not working hard enough.

©Ida Kotyuk, Portrait Painter

www.portraits-oils.com