I’m having I guess what could be considered a surreal day and I’m not sure how it has settled with me.  To catch you up- I hosted/facilitated the One Stone’s exhibit tour yesterday to a smiling group of 25 people.  I was absolutely thrilled to get such a turnout with such support from campus and Banana Factory.  I’m going to have to update you on that at another time because I think where my head is at will not do it justice (plus I don’t have the photos since they were taken by a friend- hopefully they will be in my hands soon!).

Today was Barba-del’s memorial service.  I was at service completely organized by her as she is a woman who chose to live by her own standards.  When she realized she was ill, she began to take measures to ensure that she be remembered by the people who knew and loved her best. 

I parked my car on Hamilton Street, surprised to even get a spot right out front of the House of Chen, her favorite restaurant.  I was greeted out front by Mia, Barba-del’s daughter, where I introduced myself and was recieved with a warm “Campbell” welcome.  Mia and her friend (who’s name is escaping me at the moment- I’m sorry!)  seemed to appreciate my blog posting about her which was a beautiful feeling that I could do her such justice.  I was however whisked inside where Mia insisted that I find a necklace to wear since I came sans jewelry.  What was I thinking?  If you knew Barba-del, she always wore such mountains of jewelry and I’m not sure if I really fathomed the amount of jewelry she had.  I walked around a table chock full of baskets filled to the brim with her jewelry and all the women, in Barba-del’s spirit, adorned themselves with her duds.  It was a little unsettling for me at first.  But then I really thought about it and looked around and here I saw a room of women and even some men, with large encrusted jewelry, all sharing stories and loving having that little bit of her.  This was Barba-del…. she talked to everyone and everything and here we all were doing the same.

Barba-del’s ceremony was all about friends sharing stories and having a good time.  I absolutely adored hearing about each and every letter she wrote- so many to the Morning Call and the New York Times.  So many that the Morning Call was heavily represented there at the ceremony.  And her suggestions to the New York Times to make the Sunday crossword harder… since she completed them in record time of 8 minutes (and their response apologizing for such a lack of a challenge). 

But then I had to leave and I dashed away to celebrate my fathers birthday for a great low key family dinner.  Iggy was in and proudly sat me down to watch his crazy dance.  Once the performances were complete, we watched “Up.”  Ok.  I realize that this borders on the blow by blow of my day however one thing I have been learning as of late (that a cherished friend has pointed out) is that there are no coincedences. 

I spent the afternoon listening about a woman who lived (and died) completely on her own terms.  Then I watched a (children’s) movie about a man, in the memory of his fearless wife, becomes absolutely fearless himself.

My dad is the first one to tell me the quote I now see on magnets everywhere: “Never ever ever ever give up. -Winston Churchill”
I haven’t talked about or saw that quote in a very long time but within the past few days, I have had it ringing in my head.  “Never ever ever ever give up.”

Hearing about the endless letters Barba-del wrote to the United States Postal Service to commemorate Paul Robeson on a postage stamp; watching this sweet story about a man achieve his wife’s dream- just distills into this Churchill quote for me.  I think I sometimes feel like I may be wayward- like who cares about what I make?  Why do I work so hard at the sacrifice of other things?  Why should anyone care about what I do?  Am I still making work hoping for the giant refridgerator magnet of approval?

I’m not sure.  I’m in another one of those weird spots, dear reader.  And I become hesitant to even post it but I think it’s fair to say that not every day can be roses. 

A flash of a discussion happened last night where we talked about “failures.”  When making art, one seems to not want to acknowledge struggle and failure.  Typically a visual artist will hide the failures from the viewer.  I’m not talking of any specific failure here regarding anything I’ve made- what I’m getting at is that a person who makes things, sometimes wonders why they even make them and does anybody care.  We all are weird little beings out there.  There are people who live and die every single day.  And how we are remembered is by what we leave behind- baskets of jewelry; an adventure book; maybe a painting but these things seem so little compared to the magnificence of people.  I love that I contribute to society and I believe that I will “never ever ever ever give up” but I guess sometimes I hope that I do not sacrifice too much for just a room of paintings.