You Are Worthy of Love

The sun shone brightly today. The garden was lovely and inviting. Circumstances were such that I had no where else to be.

I brought my canvas and pallet outside, content to sit in the sun and paint.

Inspired by the quote:

"You can search throughout the entire universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe deserve your love and affection"

- Buddha

Acrylic on canvas - 20X30"

Text Reads:

There are times when we will be most critical

we will lack compassion and caring

or feel we are unable to forgive ourselves.

We are unwilling to try because we believe

we do not deserve it.

However there is no greater strength

than that of self knowledge

the root of which is found in our

belief in and ability for

self love,

of this you are

worthy.

Teach the Way They learn

I am often asked where I went to school, what sort of studies did I take and where did I obtain my skills?

I am not a student in any stereotypical way. I do not learn the way most institutions choose to teach and therefore, I have come to consider myself a student of life. I learn by doing and experiencing something first hand. I didn't go to school to learn how to start a not-for-profit, I just dove in a did it. I haven't studied to be a writer, I simply write because i must. I have not studied art beyond that which was taught to me in your standard high school classes. I've learned from taking the plunge and trying things on my own. As a result, I've remembered what I've learned.

I really do believe in the philosophy: If the student does not learn the way we are teaching, then we must teach in the way they learn.

I've taken on the responsibility of knowing what this means and how it applies to me. There is no room for arguing about what doesn't help me retain something. I must, instead, seek to find solutions and ways in which my skills can be developed. Obviously I also learn quite well from reading, but the way in which something has been written must be considered. I dislike wordy writing, written as if confounding the reader with big words will accelerate you to a higher academic standing. If the reader is confused then the writer has failed.

I'm also put off by dry writing, with a focus on just the facts written with little or no imagination.

The things which capture my attention and find their way into my memory banks are the exciting stories and snippets of a life lived. I remember a piece of art because there's a story about the sculptor and the affair he had with the woman who's bust I am looking at. I'll remember stunning life sized statues of voluptuous women because Victoria gave them to Albert out of love.

So today, when I was at the Saatchi Gallery, I was disappointed. Certainly, the art was magnificent. Some of the pieces delighted me and others definitely inspired. The lighting was perfect for each display and I was captivated for the duration of my visit...but there was something missing. At most of the museums I've been to there is a description, a break-down of the materials used and some information about the painter, designer, photographer or sculptor responsible for what I am gazing upon. Here there was so little information, beyond the artists name and a very technical description of the art. I received no answer as to what the artist intended or why they chose to do what they'd done. Even the technical information was lacking, when 'mixed media' was the only description used for a taxidermy deer head covered in clear balls of...well, that's just it! What?

The only way to retain the information was by Tweeting my discoveries, so I might go back and look up the names of the artists and their work at a later date. I did just that, and I think it will be fun to do some exploring into all I've seen today. But the greatest lesson I learned, and one I have no problem adhering to, is that the story of an artists journey and work is as important as the work itself.

Grey Boogers

London is fantastic to get around in. I know most people who live here love griping about the underground, but I think they do it out of some sort of obligation rather than genuine frustration. It's like complaining about the weather. We just do it, but most of the time we're not actually that impassioned about what we're saying.

Admittedly, the tube has managed to stop running at inconvenient times whilst I was on it, but I'm not bothered. Generally all the stops are quite close together and when you come above ground you'll start to see things you've been missing by sitting on a train deep below the surface.

But when they are running, and when I have to catch the Northern Line through to London Bridge or Moorgate, I really enjoy the ride. Public transport is the great equalizer and the London Underground has such high volumes of people on it, one could never get bored with all the people watching to be done.

One day I was riding the train to Borough Market (Which is at the London Bridge Station, not the Borough station, funnily enough.) when a guy accompanied by a young kid came through to the car I was on from the next one over. He was carrying an accordion and I thought to myself, without much foresight, "Ha! Let's hope he doesn't decide to play it!"

Of course, within moments, the young kid had pulled a cup out from beneath his jacket, beamed a smile at the occupants of the car, and as if on cue, the accordion came to life. They slowly made their way down the length of the train, shaking that little cup. I can't imagine anyone would have donated anything to them. The whole incident put me in mind of a delightful collection of jokes, my favourite being: "What are bagpipes best for? Kindling for an Accordion fire."

When I took the train to Heathrow to pick up my delightful kitty I was actually quite excited. Of course, the minute I had her crate to bring back, I began to feel a bit fizzy. She was under great stress from the plane ride and the rattle of the train wasn't helping. I kept a hand just inside her crate, petting her and covering her ears when the train squealed. I could feel my own anxiety rising until, because I was on the faithful Piccadilly line, the friendly English Recording said, "This train terminates at Cockfosters."

Admittedly a lot of the station names do make me giggle. Like Goodge or Tooting. But when I'm not amused by them, I'm usually amazed. Like Liverpool Street Station, which probably sounds familiar even to those who've never been to the UK.

They bustle with the ebb and flow of Londoners going about their day, immigrants trying to make a couple of quid, students heading to uni and tourists getting horribly lost. I avoid certain stations, like Charing Cross, Victoria or King's Cross St. Pancras, as best I can. Tourists are very lovely and so excited, but they miss essential rules like Stand on the Right, Walk on the Left when taking the escalator. Or they step out onto a platform and just...stop, blocking the doorway. Of course, I do my best to help them when I can, or to help anyone who has that look of utter confusion as they furrow their brows at the colourful map of the underground lines.

When I came to visit back in November I remember the feeling of confusion to see the little veins of colour criss-crossing. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it and I wasn't sure I'd ever figure it out. Two days later I was as savvy as anyone could be, having discovered things even some Londoners didn't appear to know. I had been tipped off about where to stand to line up with the doors (Mind the Gap, don't you know?) and that the train for each line was colour coordinated. Catching a District line? Look for the green bars when the train pulls up. Yes, the Northern line does have it's rails painted yellow, but the rails right by the door have little black rubber rings on them, making them distinctly different from the Circle line.

The zones aren't that difficult either and generally zones 1 - 3 have all the places of interest. I've opted out of Pay As You Go, choosing instead to fill my Oyster Card on a monthly basis. 119 quid (Wish I had a pound key on my keyboard) allows me to take all the buses and trains I want in zones 1 - 3. Course, if you're here on a shorter term you can go with a Pay As You Go Oyster Card or just buy a ticket per journey. You'll discover soon enough, what method is best for you.

Oh, and after you've been riding the train all over, having mastered it of course, don't be alarmed. It's dirty down there. When you blow your nose, don't be surprised by your grey boogers.

Sketches from my observations whilst riding the train,collected in my journal.

I painted a gouache bee

"Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it."
- Buddha

I've been finding myself thinking about how very different my life is compared to this time last year. I know that might seem an odd thing as one would hope there would be significant change in a years time, but for a period of a few years my life had become quite predictable. I won't call it 'safe' because it certainly wasn't and if anything, I'm happy to have so much change in just a year after so much stagnation in three years.

This is part of why I came to London, where I've now been living for two months and two days. As I look back on what brought me to this place I can never seem to find a beginning, although there are many spots I could choose from. The thing about life is how the story lines of one persons existence overlap and intertwine, unlike any novel or movie. But I do believe that those story lines feed each other, even if it's indirect or takes an extended period of time.

I've been reflecting on a lot of this as I have been writing my first non-fiction novel. It's turning out to be a much larger project than I first anticipated. When I set out to write it I was doing so as part of a submission to a larger project. It was a piece that might have been included in an anthology, limited to a few thousand words. As I began writing, however, I quickly found that my experience and what I'd learned from it, couldn't be contained to such a limited number. I completed something for the submission but carried on with the piece as it flowed from me.

Because it's non-fiction and because it is, in fact, about me and my experience, writing it can be quite difficult. You always hear the phrase 'Write what you know' and I am a strong believer in that. Of course, when you're writing about yourself you start to see things that you didn't realise you knew. There's a lot of reflection and discovery. I'm fine with this, obviously. I've become a more introspective person, as anyone who has known me for a significant period of time will tell you. I no longer look for validation from external sources and instead, I have learned that happiness is generated from within and self-knowledge is necessary for this to occur.

The scary thing about knowing this is seeing the ways in which I hold myself back. I know, by and large, I am a passionate person with a forward momentum that is admired by many. I myself am often stunned by my ability to create and keep a deadline. With my artwork it feels natural to share it with the world and each completed piece fuels the next one. Each new discovery, whether it be the discovery of gouache or the discovery of a sculptor, gives me an unbridled energy. I think I'm surprised by it because I never let myself identify as an artist before, even though it's so obviously who I am.

However, I have always seen myself as a writer and aspired to be published as an author. I have always written fervently and as a necessity, to capture the rush of my imagination in a novel or to capture my own observations in a journal. I have also chosen, largely, not to share what I've written. Now that I have come to realise my raging Buddhist tendencies, I find myself asking 'Why?'

As my psychologist would probe me session after session, why have I not published one of my five young adult fiction pieces? Why have I balked at writing a blog such as this? Why have I chosen to keep my abundant collection of short stories, musings and essays hidden away from everyone?

No one gets in our own way more than ourselves, just as no one is more deserving of our own love and respect. These facts cause a contradiction. It can be so difficult to love yourself when you see the ways in which you hold yourself back. We seek road blocks for our happiness and I've no idea why we do it. Why I do it. My excuses...my road blocks...my 'good' reasoning as to why I am yet to be a published author are as follows:

I don't like editing my own work.

Every time I sit down to edit something it becomes overwhelming and I miss really obvious errors.

When I give my work to other people to edit they don't give me genuine or useful feedback.

I don't have a printer to print off the first three chapters of anything, double spaced in 12 point font.

So what is it really? Why am I afraid to realise the biggest dream I've ever had? Me, the girl who decided to leave her family and all her friends and the hometown she grew up in to live in the hectic, fast paced city of London? Me, who, at nineteen went to Australia, on the other half of the planet by herself?

I have heard so many people tell me that I am an inspiration to them or that I'm hugely brave for doing what I do. I don't think it's about bravery so much as I can't find a reason not to adventure around the world. I can't find a reason why I shouldn't paint giant tarot cards. I can't find a reason why I shouldn't live my life with the most genuine intention. So I need to stop finding a reason why I can't be a published author, because from what I'm beginning to see, a lot of people like my writing. The greatest discovery I've made since arriving in London, is that people read my blog quite a bit. A lot of people read my blog and send me the most wonderful messages about how much they enjoy it.

So thank you, every one of you who reads this and every one of you who has told me that I write beautifully or that you look forward to new entries from me. Thank you so much for helping me see that all my silly road blocks are mine to own and mine to tear down.

May we all see that this is life, as it happens, here and now. Life is not about what you could do one day or what you hope for eventually. Life is too short for that. Life is about living and living is about doing, not letting or waiting for things to happen to you.

3 months in London, 3 paintings completed

I've had two more paintings imaged. You can purchased various prints for as little as $2.59 CAD!

Currently my website is more of a portfolio as it features the work I've been doing. Not everything featured is available as a print (yet!) so, to simplify things, I've decided to make this entry with images of what is currently available. Simply click the image and follow the link!

Remember, almost all of my originals are available for purchase and I'm more than happy to do custom work.

Vivaldi - Kait's Mix Tape

"I love that you're listening to classical," she said from the next room over. I could hear the smile in her voice.

"It's not just 'classical' I'm listening to," I responded, coming to the doorway, "it's Vivaldi."

I've often said I love all sorts of music, and I really truly do. My taste is quite broad, which I'm sure many of you have gathered from my past Mix Tape posts. There is no genre of music I haven't found appealing in some way for some reason.

I realise that classical music is often seen as 'boring' or perhaps the sort of thing you might put on to help you sleep. It's also associated with an older generation and although I may joke about being a sixty year old woman (I like to be in bed by ten-thirty and up at the crack of dawn.) I am not actually. But, as I always say, it's not like a person is incapable of hearing music written before they were born. Whether they appreciate it is an entirely different thing and I think appreciation of such things is fostered in the way a child is brought up. I've already shared my appreciation for books, as it was given to me through the clever parenting of my mum and dad. My love of classical music came about in much the same way. My love of all music, really.

Lacking a television meant we often had the radio on. My dad's favourite station is the famed CKUA, which features an abundance of music from jazz, blues, folk, world and of course, classical. I would attribute listening to CKUA with my love of blues. It was listening to my parents record collection that turned me on to the musical revolution of the 60's and 70's. The contribution of my brothers tastes fed my sounds from the 90's. Going over to my best friend's house was a taste of the 80's and the sounds that were made anywhere but North America.

But my love of Classical came from a series of cassettes my parents purchased for me and my brother. Of course you can now get them as CD's, but my memories of them are of the cases littered around my bedroom floor. I would listen to them at night, as I went to sleep. My parents gave me a small black tape recorder, which I was very fond of. With this recorder I listened to these tapes over and over.

The first one we got was Beethoven Lives Upstairs and for this reason it holds a special place in my memory and in my heart. The story is told through the correspondence of letters from a nephew to his uncle. Beethoven moves into the upstairs flat of the boys home and is the source of much fascination to him. The story is filled with his music and snippets about the foul tempered composer.

The collection grew and soon we had Mr. Bach Comes To Call, Tchaikovsky Discovers America, and Mozart's Magic Flute. But it was the purchase of Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery and subsequent discovery of his music which thrilled me most. I've said again and again that my favourite songs always seem to have stringed instruments in them. From 'Glass Vase, Cello Case' by Tattletale to 'Believe Me' by Fort Minor or 'Oh What a World' by Rufus Wainwright. None of these are 'classical', although they may sample from it, but they all have cello's or violins playing a role.

What I remember most from listening to Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery was how it made me feel. The music was so emotional and intense. I would shiver when it was dark and I would fill up, like my heart had grown wings, when it was light. Each sound felt connected to me in an emotional way I couldn't have possibly explained as a child, and still it effects me. To put on Vivaldi or to hear the lift of violins in a pop song never fails to delight. My step may get lighter or I'll feel this need to sit and write or to grab a brush and let the colours from the music flow onto a canvas.

I adore the memory that the sounds bring forth and I love my parents for exposing me to these sounds at such an early age. I believe it fuels much of my creativity today and I'm happy knowing that the most incredible masters of sound were absolute mis-fits. Indeed, these tapes taught me that, to be full of passion and to do what you love, is to be a bit mad.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

London Journal - Tate and NPG

It's World Book Day, apparently. Thanks to google, I also know that it's Vivaldi's Birthday. First thing I did was download some of his music and put it on my iPod. Then, to celebrate I decided to march fourth and see what fun I could have by visiting Tate Britain in the morning and the National Portrait Gallery in the afternoon.

Tate Modern and Tate Britain are across the Thames from one another in the loosest terms. There is a boat you can take between the two, if you wanted to do one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I would like to spend a day that way, but perhaps when the weather is warmer. Besides, I've already been to Tate Modern.

I caught the train to Stockwell, where I switched to the Victoria line and went to Pimlico. This is a very direct route from where I live, but on the day I'd been to the Modern I discovered getting to Tate Britain from there via tube would be a hassle. I assume this is why they have the boat service.

The walk from Pimlico tube station to the museum was pleasant. It's not really 'Spring' yet, but the sun has been shining more often than not lately and today it was managing to break through the clouds frequently. It lit up the white steps of Tate, welcoming me in to yet another of the stunning museums London has to offer.

The key difference between Tate Modern and Tate Britain is the style of art displayed. Moderns artist are still alive or representative of styles which 'pushed the envelope'. Tate Britain has more classic stuff, but not like the National Gallery. This was classic art which, for the time, was cutting edge. I found myself most drawn to the work of John Everett Millais, who depicted Christ in less than flattering terms. My favourite piece of the day would have to be Christ In The House of His Parents, although it was rivaled by the incredible detail and colours of John Linnel's and Samuel Colman's work.

I've discovered that I am just not a fan of Whistler. His work does nothing for me and I moved on quickly from it, to find other wonders to behold.

The next room was full of busts and sculptures, which really were fascinating and fun. There was a little cluster of art students sat in the middle of the floor. They were armed with sketchbooks but didn't seem to be interested in what was before them. They chatted aimlessly as I looked at the works of Alfred Gilbert, Edward Onslow Ford and Fredrick William Pomeroy.

At this point my tummy was starting to rumble. There is much, much more to Tate Britain but I accepted it would have to wait for another day. I took this chance to celebrate World Book Day by visiting the gift shop. I purchased three books:

"Nietzsche, a Graphic Guide" by Laurence Gane & Piero

"The Anatomy & Figure Drawing Artist's Handbook" by Viv Foster

and

"The Book of Dead Philosophers" by Simon Critchley

Entirely pleased with all three purchases, I went to the cafeteria for lunch, before continuing on my way. Next stop, Pimlico to Green Park. At Green Park I switched to Piccadilly line (Which ends at Cockfosters and despite wanting to come across as very mature and grown up, the name is funny and makes me giggle.) to get to Leicester Square. I was going to the National Portrait Gallery, which I've been to before. I went on the closing day of the 'Bowie to the Beatles' exhibit. It was heaving with people that day and once I'd been through the entire thing I simply didn't have the energy to peruse the regular exhibits of the museum. Today seemed the perfect day to accomplish this task and I'm happy to say that I have done just that.

I thought I'd enjoy the more modern wings of the museum, with pictures of more recent historical influence, but it was probably the Tudors which caught my attention the most. I really do love the bloody and sordid history of British royals and having the rich oil paintings of the masters portraying them just added to the stories. My favourite is all the images of infant kings, dressed entirely in frilly white frocks. To do such a thing now would be ridiculous, but it was completely natural and expected then, of course.

How the times have changed.

All in all, it was a lovely way to spend World Book Day. To top it off, I finished a novel whilst riding the train home from the NPG. My first Agatha Christie and my sixth novel of the year. I certainly hope you all spend some time with a book today and I thank you for reading my blog. I may not yet be a published author, but I am a writer and it's wonderful to know that my writing is being enjoyed.