This is the mask. It's pretty sturdy and stuck to the stick, so almost a practical choice of headgear. Not the tiara one might wish for to participate in the Market Opening Day fashion act.

But close.

A Toast to Jell-O!

Here's the poster for the show, created I'm pretty sure by Jennifer Andrews. Stellar use of colors, so many colors of shiny metal. Very sparkly too, and I might have to copy those bubbles somehow. I have no idea what I'm doing for the t-shirt design.

Getting the sculpture finished, though. Set it all up to see what needs more work, mainly the stuff on the bottom and mounting the mask.

I put it on a stick, so you can hold it up in front of your face.

While wearing a set of wings, which will be removeable from the figure and worn around the show, I hope.










Have to get the bird mounted somehow, too. Love Jell-O Art weekends, that is for sure.

Soul requires jiggle

Here's a piece I wrote in 2008 which puts my odyssey with Jell-O Art into words.


The Way
Jell-O. Just add water. Sweet, pretty, fun, and it jiggles. Just like me!

I’m a Jell-O Artist. A group of women artists called the Radar Angels started the Jell-O art show in 1988, and it comes around on April Fools Day, always different, always whipped up at the last minute to last only three short hours.

Why Jell-O?

People love Jell-O. Jell-O is real, but fake. It is not food, but masquerades as food. Its colors are unnatural and gaudy, brilliant and transparent as glass. It attracts, delights, and amuses. It’s universally known, well-established, an icon.

Jell-O is a commodity. It comes in a box, a recognizable, effectively marketed, cultural box. We all live in that box, the one artists are always trying to get out of.

Jell-O is a metaphor. It represents the art that is available to the common woman. Make Jell-O tonight! Create a sensation! Make some magic!

Jell-O Art subverts the American icon. It transcends the domestic box. As women and the children of women, we resonate deeply with Jell-O Art.

As an art material it is both easy to mold and entirely uncooperative. It’s cheap and disposable. It’s dependable, and has unexplored possibilities, but they are limited in scope. It’s accessible.

There is no established Jell-O art hierarchy. There is no criticism or judgment. There is no good or bad Jell-O art. It stands on its own, or jiggles and melts, on its own clear and brilliant terms.


Art is a response. Jell-O responds (poke it), and evokes emotion. Ooh. Aaah.

Art is self-expression. The artist reaches within, and pulls the soul out to examine and display. The soul can’t be compromised. The soul can’t be boxed. Soul requires jiggle.

Art is a vehicle to connection. It brings us together, where we learn and grow. We find each other, at the great big potluck of life, where there is always Jell-O.

Art is business. Artists become commodities, with their products. Jell-O Art is outside this world of art marketing, although a piece of Jell-O art once sold for $400. Most of it goes into the compost.

Art asks questions. The questions are endless. What is truth, what is real, what matters? What can be expressed? What can be turned upside down? What assumption can be examined? What icon can be assailed?

Artists create. The process is as important as the result, to the artist. The process starts with the question, and attempts an answer. Often the question is: who am I? Who am I at this moment, in this world? What can I say? What am I feeling? What kind of Jell-O do I like best?

I created. Through making Jell-O art annually as a spring ritual, I discovered my creative process. When I realized I had one, I went from a self-taught, outsider artist with no credentials, to a capital-A Artist. All along, the questions were in place, but it took Jell-O for me to find the answers.

It’s alive. Don’t say no, say Jell-O.

Jell-O Magic

More Thoughts

Why I am doing this instead of working on my Jell-O, I can't say, but I think it is because I have a lot on my mind, and it's pretty quiet around here.

It's Saturday, and spending some hours at the Park Blocks got me in the mood for that 12 hour day of intense effort that results in exhaustion, exhilaration, and a few bucks in my pocket that are sure not there right now. When I get home from a Market Saturday I am usually mute, talked out, full of energy but not for people. I usually am so grateful for the quiet and the lack of demands on me, because that is one demanding day that takes me a day to recover from.

But I have been thinking about this blog and what I am doing here. It's not a conversation, there's nothing much coming back most of the time that might change my mind or my sentence or shift my thoughts in a different direction. It's a bit of a conversation with an unknown listener, or one I project, and I do, of course, censor my words and write carefully so I don't tell lies and I don't hurt people. But I'm just talking to myself, in the quiet, in my controlled, safe space.

I'm pretty sure that most people who read it know that. I doubt many people even read it, especially the long posts that don't have pictures. I don't believe most of my family members even read it, or people whom I consider my best friends. It's not required.

I'll admit that it surprises me that my closest people don't, but I've learned that I can't expect much from my family or friends, or rather that it is wiser to be grateful for what you do get instead of having expectations of what you should get. That is just expressing what you want, really. I want them to want to know my deepest self, and what I say and think about, but they often want other things themselves, and it generally isn't intentional at all that they don't hear me. I could make it mandatory, but that probably wouldn't make them want it any more, maybe less.

I've been surprised, as well, that some people have taken great offense at me discussing the 8th St. issue here. Again, I thought it was clear that a blog is personal opinion. I have actually been really careful to use positive language, keep names out, and try to say things that I felt might advance understanding and harmony, not undermine it. I feel that I have been honest about my own shortcomings or wrong thinking, and have tried for a very balanced view. I may not be a great judge of that.

I suppose I can treat their offense as criticism and let it roll over me, but I'm actually really bad at getting criticized. I take it way too personally. I've had to work hard in my writing group to just write anyway, and stay strong about what I want to say and how to say it. In the blog, it's easier, because there isn't a critical structure, it's not a workshop. If people disagree I assume they just pass off my words as tangential rambling that doesn't need to concern them.

But I feel the need to mend things, so I'll have to think about how to do that. I'll have to be mature about the disagreeing and take the opportunity, if I get it, to ease things. It's one of those classic situations where I won't apologize, because I don't think I did anything wrong, and besides, they need to apologize to me, etc, etc, and so on. Some effort is needed, and I want to be big enough to offer it, if I can think of a way to do that without compromising.

I guess I can just suck it up and go buy vegetables from people who think I am their enemy. I did that at HM, and they didn't refuse my cash. If they still think I am their enemy when I am giving them my hard-earned dollars, well, then maybe just that will make them think again.

I've spent years building bridges over there, and I can just continue that work. We can safely disagree about things in our world. It doesn't extend to the personal, or doesn't have to. I'm pretty sure I made my points, and things seem to be going in a more cooperative direction at this time. I can be the first to drop the opposition stance, which has been hard for me to hold anyway.
I don't think things are going to hell in a handbasket, I mostly just didn't want the street to be closed. I don't even drive a fricken car.

Plus, I'm out of carrots, lettuce, spinach, onions, garlic, eggs, and all things farmed. I need them, and maybe someday they will acknowledge that they needed me once, and though they tossed me aside over this one issue, I'm still here, wanting to be friends, wanting us all to thrive.

One of them might even need a damn hat once in awhile. It's time to make peace.

Parallels

While I was attending a memorial service today, my Mom, who is 85, was attending one for Russell W. Peterson, who recently died as an old man. He was a wonderful environmentalist, fought Big Oil, and served as Governor of Delaware, and my connection to him is that my Mom transcribed his papers, speeches, and books for the last twenty years or so. He was a good writer, but not that good with punctuation, and my Mom had to navigate his handwritten, chaotic yellow legal pads with arrows and crossouts and present him with an organized, neatly typed document worthy for putting into the Library of Congress, where his writing is headed.

She had an intimate relationship with his words and self-expression which no one will probably recognize, though he did. I loved hearing her talk about it and I hope when she is farther along in her own grief process, we will write something like an interview about this role she played. As she was talking I noticed a similarity to the role I play taking minutes for SM, and now a couple of OCF committees. I listen to discussions and try to present an organized, coherent summary of what people said that led to something more concrete, an action or an opinion or just some kind of movement forward in whatever the committee or Board is trying to accomplish by meeting. Nothing I type is going to the Library of Congress, but it does become a permanent record of some usefulness in limited ways, and I'm proud that I have some skill at it and can help in this way.

Everyone, at the memorial service I attended, wanted to help in some meaningful way. This is the major impulse I have recorded in my grieving process for Jack Harnsongkram. I am not super close to the family, though we certainly know each other and have worked together at the Market for at least 30 years. Our sons, Richard and John, are the same age, and we got together a few times when they were babies. We're not close, but we're solidly connected.

I mention Jack's name because I learned something important today from Colleen, one of my mentors and co-creators, which was that she learned from Compassionate Friends that one thing people tend to do around death is hesitate to speak about the departed loved one, for fear of causing additional grief. That has been my concern, that I will add to the burden of Saman and Sarah instead of doing the helping that I want to do. Thanks to Colleen I know now to be bolder about keeping Jack alive in the ways that we can, by speaking clearly about him and about the challenges of loving each other and keeping each other cared for.

Sarah asked that everyone try to keep his brother, Richard, in our hearts because he is here, and he lost more than we can imagine. I do know a few things about being 21, and about young men of that age, and I know about the struggles and joys I experience with my own son, so I will be looking for ways to open my heart to Richard when I can. It might just be looking into his face and saying Good Morning. It might come through more attention to what my own son wants and needs and using that understanding in a broader way. Whatever help I am able to give might not be a direct thing from me to Richard, but it might transfer to another young person, at another time, in another situation.

We just can't know all of the good we do. One kind look or word, one moment of listening, might mean everything to someone in the moment. Today on the way downtown I witnessed a young man climb a big incense cedar tree, and I do not know how on earth he accomplished it. When I saw him it was because a cry of triumph got my attention to him standing on a branch far too high to reach...maybe twelve or fifteen feet from the ground! I really don't know what he did, and how he got down, but for the short minute I was passing under the tree, I made a point to express my admiration and delight at his amazing accomplishment.

It might have meant nothing to him, that someone who resembled his grandmother was impressed, yet, you never know. His expectation might have been that any adult on the scene would have told him to get down immediately. He might think adults have no use for him whatsoever, like many of our young people grow to think when we have no jobs or time for them, or resources, or attention to ask them what they really enjoy doing or would like to try.
I won't know what he thought, and it doesn't matter to me, but all I was doing was expressing my own thoughts and wonder at what I was seeing in my walk down the street.

That's the point, that I expressed myself. That's what we have to do, all we have to do to start things rolling. When we feel something, we let somebody know.

What they think of us is not our problem. If they misinterpret, maybe we get to clear that up, but we learn to express ourselves clearly, so they'll get it, and hopefully we learn to express ourselves kindly and positively so that others can benefit, not suffer.

It's a skill, this self-expression, and we get a lifetime to work on it. Jack was really good at it, though his lifetime was a very short one, and it is sad that we don't get to hear what he would have learned to express. It might have been amazing, or just ordinary. My hope is that our loss of him will remind us to express ourselves now, and more, and more clearly, because we really can't know what the ripples from that will be.

Beth gave a most wonderful speech today, a benediction and affirmation. She is our treasure. She really sees into our souls and expresses our finest sides. I give her credit for helping the Market community coalesce into the strong, emotional, solid force of good that we now represent. As a group we transcend our individual natures that can sometimes be exhausted or eccentric or self-centered or selfish. We hear from her how we can be as our finest selves, as we express our hippie ways, our counter-culture that values giving, being honest, creating, and loving with all our hearts. We have freed ourselves from fear and created something together that keeps us safe throughout our lives, from birth to death. It's no small thing.

She said Market isn't our church, but it is for me. Our services are filled with food and flowers and song and laughter. We meet every week to joke around doing serious business. We don't compete, we embrace our differences and help each other. We have very little to fear from each other, and that safety translates to everyone who comes down to hang around with us.

I realized this week that the new space I will be in was held for years by the same person who held my Holiday Market space for those same many years, Maria Serrot, a regal sort of woman who made beautiful ceramics. Some people think it's one of the best spots, some don't, but it is for sure one of the sunniest spots in the Market, and everyone I talked to described how Maria dealt with the sun and gave me ideas for how I will. I have already been welcomed into the neighborhood and we don't even open for three weeks.

I'm going to dance in that sun. I'm going to sing in that space. I'm going to listen, especially to the young and old, and I'm going to be grateful for everything that is given. The love is there for me, and it is there for you. Take some. Give some.

Narcissistic Souffle

I wish I could take credit for that phrase but I have made it my own, since it often describes my state when I get attention...I get all full of hot air and inflated ego. But it's fun for awhile and I hope I didn't embarrass myself. I'm talking about the panel discussion that we just finished on Saturday Market and OCF at the Lane County Museum.

I filled an entire table with my archives from just those early years, the signs and photos of signs and cards and calendars and all the things I produced back then. I did a little transition to the wonderful things we made at Fibergraphics but there were no t-shirts, and I have made hundreds of those, so we just touched on a little part of my productive life. I did remember to mention the "high touch" aspect of crafts which is another reason why we have managed to carve out such a significant niche. People want what we make, and they love buying it from us in person.

It's amazing to speak about oneself to an appreciative crowd. I know it wasn't about me, but I did feel that I was an important part of what we created collectively. It's like when someone came into my booth and said they ran the Fair. I said, yeah, you and 5000 other volunteers. I did all this while hundreds of other people did far more amazing (as well as far less, let's be honest) things and there were plenty of people who dedicated much more energy than I did to it all. But we all get to own it. It's our communal history.

It's hilarious when we get started, especially the many intersections socially when we try to remember how we met and how we are connected. Your ex- was my co-worker and we were at that one party when...those conversations are really fun. We could have had a lot more of those. I forgot to mention working at Sprout City, kind of a rite of passage, and a lot of my friends worked at the Newf, as we still call the New Frontier Market. We sent our kids to Family School. There are all the other branches of the family, the Deadwood folks and the many other groups that came together on Saturdays and that one special weekend in July, and still do. The Radar Angels and Jell-O Show, the Extravaganzas they used to stage at the WOW, all the many performers we knew and loved.

There were so many things I didn't mention, the bike carts for one. I built my first booth so that it would become a bike cart at the end of the day. It failed as a bike cart, so I commissioned George Braddock to make me one, since he was the only person I knew who could weld. He built me a fine one that I used for several years until Mike and I started the businesses and the load was too big for a cart. Now I use one again, and I've written about it before. There was always a wheeled culture at Saturday Market, handcarts and other types, and it has never gone away. It hearkens back to early merchants, as long as there have been wheels I guess. That's symbolic of how we do things in our culture, with low technology and lots of ingenuity and resourcefulness.

We're a bunch of eccentric people, mostly, but we fit together really well. We find delight in each other. It's amazing that we found each other and this place and time, and that we have managed to keep ourselves so alive and well together. It has been a lot of fun, and created tons of enjoyment for others.

I'll deflate soon, and get back to the slogging of the everyday work like cleaning screens, making painstaking drawings, dyeing shirts on days too wet to hang them out, doing my taxes. Finding the money to get my Fair booth going again. It's step by step. That makes a life. I'm glad I took some steps on some unusual paths. I hope I get the chance to tell more of my stories. It's like when I did the Story Corps recording, it feels like my legacy and it's such an honor to get a chance to tell about it. It's rare that I'm that proud of myself.

I hope I get to hear more of other people's stories. It's amazing to hear how brave and original people can be. I don't know if that gets through to people, especially young people, but I know most of the Market kids grow up to do similar things, though usually more integrated into the mainstream culture it seems, or the online culture anyway. We wanted to live original lives. That can probably be traced back to Kesey or Leary or some beatnik or other, but it really stuck in my generation and seems to be a permanent part of the culture now. It has provided a good ride.

It was thrilling that so many people turned out tonight. The Museum could be encouraged to put on some more of these panel discussions. We could get much more specific and narrow with the topics, or broaden them to include more of the cultural aspects rather than the physical ones. It's pretty fun to gather and trade memories. I'm sure lots of people are politely waiting to see if anyone will ask them to tell their stories. I didn't realize how much I wanted to do it.

Thanks Suzi! Thanks all of the listeners! Thanks Colleen for preparing so well and having so much to say about Saturday Market. Thanks, everybody, for making life so rich.