|As The Sun Goes Down On My Life, by Stacey Torres (Acrylic Paint on 14x11" Stretched Canvas|
Who Is Anastasia?
- Rose Whisperer
- New Castle, Indiana Zone 5, United States
- When I was 55, I decided to embrace the things I love and hold precious and dear - regardless of anyone else's thoughts and opinion. I am a folk artist who loves flowers - my own flowers, grown by me. I love good, hearty, exotic foods, and I love to prepare them myself. I love the secret garden situated in my backyard, regardless of how junky it gets. No longer able to afford a vacation, this will have to be it for the time being. In the winter months, I still enjoy it. Anyway, here I am sharing my art, favorite recipes, cocktails, gardening tips, and just my usual vents and bantering. After all, I'm old enough to say whatever the heck I want to now ... Oh, the two pictures below are NOT of my garden, although the one with the pink French doors looks very much like the backyard I grew up with. I am searching for pictures of that wonderful place and will post soon.
July 21, 2015
Yes, I have returned - after a very long hiatus, I have returned to my beloved blog - and you. I have much more to share than before. Please come back and check on me when you can. Namaste
Exactly one year ago, I picked up my brush and began to paint again after a 40 year hiatus. Having studied art decades ago, it was assumed that I would pursue a career in art, but it was not in my cards. So, in 1974, I gave up my childhood dream of being an artist. Last year, I returned to my first love, and commenced to create as a means of therapy as I dealt with my mother's failing health, and my inability to “fix her.” With art, I have complete control of what I manifest on canvas or paper.
Unexpectedly, things began to happen for me rather quickly as far as my artwork goes. At almost 62, I never dreamed I would see the word “artist” after my name. But it is there, and it has taken my life down a new and wondrous path.
Last fall, I painted a portrait of an African woman. Usually, when I start a painting or drawing, I rarely know what I'm creating until it is done. When I was finished, I looked at it somewhat in awe, because it was not something I had planned, nor the type of portrait I usually do, or someone I would have normally been drawn to paint. The woman in my painting was young, with dark skin, gray eyes, a crooked smile, and a short blond Afro hairstyle.
My process is, once I've completed a portrait, I study it and imagine who the character I've created may be, where he/she may come from and what type of life they may have had. Sometimes, I'll include the story with the artwork.
I named the woman in the painting LERATO, which means “love” in Sesotho, a Bantu South African language. This painting was slated to be entered in Indiana's Lt. Governor, Sue Ellspermann's Hoosier Women Artist Contest. At the last minute, I withdrew this entry for another. I don't know why I pulled it, but something told me to. I held onto it, and on January 29, 2015, I listed it on Etsy for sale.
I thought no more about Lerato for a while. Some paintings sell rather quickly, and others linger for months. On May 26, I received an email from a woman I did not know. With her permission and blessing, I am sharing a portion of her message to me.
“ … This is so crazy. I have the wildest story to tell you. Is there any chance you painted this after someone named Lerato Moletsane? I am thinking there must have been some way you knew her? My name is Asheley ***, and I live in Louisiana, but I met this Sotho girl named Lerato about 13 years ago when I was working in an orphanage in Lesotho. Her and I became like sisters over time, even though we lived on separate continents for the majority of our friendship. I saw her as much as I could and she became like blood to me, even though our lives were so opposite. Anyway, she suddenly passed away recently and I was thinking of her tonight, and had the idea just to type her name into Etsy and this painting is the only thing that came up. I couldn't believe the similarity this photo has to Lerato, and even she had her hair dyed blonde when she passed away. Your description could not be MORE SPOT ON for her and that's why I keep thinking you must have actually known her and created this piece after her. What's more -- and God as my witness -- and I can prove it -- you posted this painting to your site the DAY Lerato died -- January 29, 2015 … I posted a photo here so you can see the uncanny resemblance. Did you know her somehow? This can't be just a coincidence ...”
Even now, a month later, I still get chills when I read her letter and think of all the events leading to the morning of May 26. Why did I paint that portrait? Why did I pull it from the contest? Why did I list it on that day – January 29? I've never seen her before in my life, knew nothing of her existence, nor Asheley's. And, why did I name her Lerato, and even reference her hometown and heritage? Moreover, how did I paint a portrait of a woman who looks almost exactly like the “real” Lerato?
I've included the photo Asheley sent me, along with my portrait of Lerato. Some people have looked at the two and just assumed I painted her from the photograph. No, I never saw the photo prior to painting the portrait.
The original painting is now in the hands of Asheley, purchased for her birthday by her loved ones. She says it has brought her much comfort and closure. I have a myriad of mixed feelings flowing through me, and don't understand any of this. But a friend told me to just be an instrument. I feel God directed my hands as I painted her; and things began to fall into place from that moment on. So, I AM an instrument. Perhaps some day, Stacey “the artist” will make a small fortune – perhaps I won't. But nothing will ever compare to the peace and gratification I continue to feel knowing that God used me as an instrument to do some good for someone else. Our talents go much deeper than the product. Sometimes they can work miracles and heal a wounded heart … and bring souls back together.
First Published, 6/28/2015 by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN
We Get By Giving
It has been around since the beginning of time -- Bartering. For centuries, people have survived on it; families thrived on it. This very simple exchange brought people together, saved money (especially where there was none) and cultivated forgotten talents and gifts.
The concept of bartering is very simple ... trading goods and/or services for other things without ever using any money. Communities grew by using the bartering system. Going back in ancient history, the Phoenicians adopted a simple bartering system that they picked up from earlier tribes, such as the Mesopotamians and Egyptians. It started out very simple, among family members, villagers, and grew rather quickly wherein the Phoenicians developed a very sophisticated network and bartered with people and far away nations. There was no such thing as money in Ancient Egypt, and their bartering system included food, textiles, livestock, jewels and spices ... even slaves. And, because certain minerals were such a rare, commodity in those times, it was quite common for Roman soldiers to be paid with salt, which was highly coveted.
Craftsmen bartered for grain, barley and other precious sources of food, and animals, using their skills as potters, weavers, goldsmiths, etc. The exchange was both powerful and practical. I've got what you need; you've got what I need; let us help each other.
So, the practice has been in existence for thousands of years. In our country's early years, people bartered for health care, paying doctors with a chicken or preserves. In some cases, an education may be bartered for other skills, such as cooking or sewing. Transportation was often paid for with eggs, a piece of carpeting or boots. To some, this may sound archaic, stupid and very impractical. Think again.
We are still in an economic crises, and things we took for granted for decades are now hard to come by. Baby boomers, like myself, are aging and while we are still in the mainstream swing of things, we are beginning to know our limitations, and because we are who we are, we know how to delegate tasks to others. However, many of us can no longer afford to. Life changing situations have put some of us in a tailspin. My grandfather always warned me that everyone -- everyone -- is one paycheck away from being homeless. Sit in denial if you wish, but 30 years ago, none of us thought we would have to work until we were 70; not by choice, but by necessity. Now, we are learning to sacrifice more and more. We talk about having more than our parents did at our age, but at our age, our parents were able to sit down and enjoy retirement.
In the State of Indiana, the minimum wage is $7.25/hour. Sure, you can live on that - but what quality of life do you have? What level of nutrition are you able to afford yourself? Everything you read about healthy eating tells us we must have five to 10 servings of superfoods per day. Really? Some of the foods on the short list include Blueberries, Blackberries, Spirulina, Wheat Grass, Asparagus, Seafood, Cherries, Pomegranate, Acai Berry, Maqui Berry, Goji Berry, Sour Cherry Juice, fresh powerhouse vegetables ... Fine. But, have you priced those lately? I've made the analogy before: a young single mother with two children reads this data in a magazine and wants what's best for her family. So they go to their local grocery store, and cherries are $6.99 a lb. That's barely enough for a one-time healthy desert for her children -- and maybe herself. Perhaps she could bag them up in sandwich bags for a healthy snack at lunch -- again, one time. Or, she can choose a sugar-laden dry cereal for the same price that will feed them for a week. Which do you think she is forced to choose?
Not long ago, it would not have been unheard of for her to barter her services -- perhaps tutoring, sewing -- anything -- for food. And nobody would have looked down on her. Today, there's this lame predicament called false pride that prevents us from reaching out to others when we (desperately) need help. And for some of us, when someone seeks help from us, while we may give it, it comes with a cost ... gossip, judgment and conditions.
As my life evolves again and again, I have been forced into situations that were not necessarily ideal for me, but I know I am in survival mode. I do believe in the law of abundance and prosperity thinking, but not in a cash or economical manner. I believe we get by giving, and we are all in a situation where we must lift each other up -- regardless of our predicaments. My yards (front and back) have been in disarray for two years. My garden was my pride and joy, but because of health and economic issues, I'm unable to tend to it the way I have in the past. Dependable/affordable landscaping is no longer in my budget -- and, so is concrete. So, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea yesterday. BARTERING!
I posted on social media that I truly needed help. My proposition was, "I bake; you mow!" Being a skilled baker, I was certain people who know this would jump on the opportunity. Well, it wasn't quite like that. You know, it was one of those posts that everyone reads, but quietly ignores. The concept of bartering terrifies some folks. It's as if you are asking for their first born child, or favorite chair. "What's in it for me?" Homemade breads, muffins -- a Key Lime Cake -- whatever! "How much cake would I get?" Well, that depends on what you think the yard work is worth ... I've paid $20-$60 to have it done in the past ... I also know my breads and cakes are priceless.
Then, finally, a friend messaged me that she thought she had someone who would be very interested. Praises Be! Without going into the details, I'm quite comfortable with this. So, I think I would like to continue bartering for other things. As an artist, I have tons of people who tell me they love my work, but don't know much about art, or don't have the money to invest in good artwork. Can we barter? Last month, I made another offer on social media - car repair for a couple of my original paintings (I even offered commissioned artwork) ... They laughed. The car repairs came to $862. The paintings (which had been on Criminal Minds, CBS TV), sold for more.
And so, I think we should look, step and walk way outside the box when we are faced with challenges we may not be able to afford, or can no longer physically do. There are always safe, comfortable and creative ways to get what we need and help each other out. About 40 years ago, I used to walk an elderly woman's dog in NY. In exchange, she gave me what she said was "junk" jewelry. It was not; it was estate jewelry that I cherished for many years. Of course, I sold that about 20 years later ... Life is full of investments. And sometimes the best investments we can make are in each other. Bartering is also an excellent way to get to know your neighbors better, and meet new people. We never know what one may have to offer -- unless we ask.
First Published 5/31/2015, by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN
First Published 5/31/2015, by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN
Once you've lived or worked among different textiles and fabrics, you develop a talent for recognizing them by scent. Organza, while very beautiful, has an olfactory sensation slightly different to Organdy, both of which sparkle like magical gossamer wings in the sunlight. The faint smell of Organdy, daffodils, natural straw, patent leather, powder and Arpege signaled a very special, but familiar event. In the distance, was always the distinct savory aroma of roasting lamb. This was the scent of Easter Sunday Morning as I remember it growing up. To this day, the fragrance is like comfort food to my nose.
Nana was born early on Easter Sunday Morning in 1896. That year, Easter fell on April 5, as it does today. Easter always comes on the first Sunday after or on the first full moon after the spring Equinox. According to Nana's (Episcopal) Common Book of Prayer, it has only occurared on April 5 five times since then. But my grandmother insisted that our family celebrate her birthday twice, on both April 5 and Easter Sunday. We indulged her this accolade because it humored her and, well, we liked a reason to celebrate.
A few years back, I started to pen a fictitious autobiography titled, “Queen Irene – A Garden of Easters.” I say fictitious, because I embellished it with all sorts of madcap events that never happened. Some of the stories, however, were true, and each of these had some sort of right of passage for me. Such as the absence of my birth father for several years, and his unexpected arrival one Easter morning before church, brandishing a huge Pepto-pink bicycle, and a hideous brown plaid cotton dress that would fit a 40 year old matron. I was only 9. It was the worst dress ever, and I glanced at the beautiful powder blue Organdy confection my Nana had made for me that hung on my bedroom door. Did he really expect me to wear this – on Easter Sunday? It wasn't that I was spoiled or felt I was too good to wear the brown plaid dress on Easter. No, I believe it was what that dress represented to me at that time; a person who felt entitled to walk in and out of my life at will, simply because he was responsible for making half of me. My father was someone I resented horrifically for many years thereafter.
Sensing my dismay and making no effort to hide her own outrage, Nana explained to my father that the dress was “too big” for me, but once I grew into it, she would see that I wore it proudly. After he left, she carefully folded the brown plaid nightmare, muttering something about it being made for a god horse, and not a little girl, as she put it in her cedar trunk. I never saw it again.
|Me, in my Nana's Garden 1963|
The Easter prior to my mother and I moving to Indiana, she and I had walked home from church. I was upset because that morning, I discovered a baby robin had fallen from its nest and I tried to comfort it by placing on the Easter grass inside of my basket. I didn't realize that the mother would not approach the foreign object that held her young one. When we got home, the baby was still lying among the purple grass, candy eggs and jelly beans (I had salvaged the chocolate cross my aunt had given me), but I had hoped it would feel well enough to nibble on the candy and get well. Surely I was old enough to know better. But there is a side of me that remains to this day, that thrives on the hope of things not likely to ever happen. Gramps came out of the house and quietly took the Easter basket and baby bird to a small grave he had dug in the back garden of our house on 118th Avenue.
Birds have a way of reminding you of certain things. My family always associated the presence of a cardinal with a deceased loved one. Gramps died at Easter in 1985. I remember his home going service was more of a celebration of the Resurrection. It seemed to make perfect sense. Upon his death, we brought his body here to New Castle for burial, and that was when my grandmother and Aunt Thelma moved here and made this their home. Whenever Nana saw a cardinal, she swore it was Gramps. I never had the heart to tell her that it was our state bird, and they were everywhere.
Then, about 25 years ago, doves built a large nest at our backdoor on top of the electric meter. Every Spring, my step-dad, Lewis, would remove the nest; and the doves would rebuild it. He too died at Easter (1998), and upon his death, I decided to leave the nest alone. The doves continued to use it for many years. Mom developed a relationship of sorts with “Mrs. Dove,” as she called her. Interestingly, about 10 years ago, robins began to show up and they would fight the doves for residency. Usually, the robins win. It's still there, and has become petrified. The year my mother went into the nursing home, a robin built another nest at our front door on top of the porch light. I removed it, and they rebuilt. This went on for a week. As usual, the robins won. So, Thursday, I watched the robins battle with the doves in the front lawn – along with some other “odd” activity I won't describe here. They made a ruckus! And lo and behold, during the deliberations, a small sparrow perched herself on the ready-made nest, and has been there ever since.
This made me think of a lot of things. Easter is the season of change and transition. Through it all, we continue to move on and hopefully grow and thrive. This is my first Easter without my mother, whom I lost in February. The numbness is as bitter as ever. However, in the midst of my pain, I was contacted by ABC Studios about featuring some of my artwork on an upcoming episode of “Criminal Minds.” I almost missed this opportunity, because in my grief, I was not reading emails. They selected a total of seven of my paintings, with the hopes that they will air on CBS (not ABC – confusing; I know) April 8, and possibly the 29th. I was reminded that there is a possibility that my work could very well end up on the cutting floor and not be seen at all. I don't care! The fact that the network was interested enough to even look at my art, let alone choose some is validation enough for me.
This is bitter sweet. In my grief and sadness, this ray of light, which in all honesty is HUGE (for me) has reminded me that there will always be change – and New Beginnings.
First Published, Easter Sunday, April 5, 2015, by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN
I received a phone call the other night from the nursing facility where my mother resides. Of course, seeing that number on Caller ID at 9:30 p.m. sends chills up my spine. They advised me that she had stopped breathing twice, and called for paramedics. It was one of the coldest nights so far this year. My car had not started in days, and I panicked.
As I waited for my uncle to pick me up to take me to the emergency room, my mind was flooded with emotions, fears, madness, memories, and the constant overwhelming feeling of guilt I continue to battle ever since I was forced to place my mom in a nursing facility.
I've spoken of these feelings before, and I work at feeling more confident about my decision every day. You know how they say when you have a near-death experience your life flashes before your eyes? Well, this was a similar experience — but, instead of memories, it was the urgency of wanting her to wait for me — give us one last chance to be with each other and say a proper goodbye; for me to see her eyes one more time before they closed.
|"Beryl," by Peter Cristofono|
She was born in 1923. In those days, doctors placed drops of silver nitrate in a newborn's eyes, and they sometimes did not open them for a couple of days. When my grandmother got her first glimpse of her second child's eyes, she saw they were a very pale green; the same color as beryllium — one of the precious gems of the Bible — the eighth stone in the New Jerusalem, Beryl. And so, my mother was named Beryl.
I've been thinking of some of the wild-and-wacky experiences I shared with her. Because my father was in Germany at my birth, and Mom went back to work within weeks, our extended family helped her raise and nurture me. Her older sister took me on several trips with her. By the time my mother was ready to take her first plane ride to Canada, I was to go with her as her escort. I was five. She was terrified and pretty vocal about it. I told her to calm down and put her seat belt on, because (I thought) they kept the plane from falling.
We took the subway to the World's Fair in Flushing Meadows again and again, eating huge Belgian waffles with powdered sugar and fresh strawberries; Japanese food, escargot, crepes and my favorite, Polynesian food.
Baseball and The Beatles
She loved baseball, and went to the last Brooklyn Dodgers game at Ebbets Field (supposedly, I was too young to go, so she went with friends). However, she and I went to the first NY Mets game at Shea Stadium when I was 10. Two years later, she braved the young masses (and my mania) and took me back to Shea to see the Beatles — what were we thinking?
Before we moved to Indiana in 1967, Beryl had a different persona. She worked at Lever House in Manhattan for Lever Brothers, and wore these amazing tall, skinny stiletto heel pumps ("Mad Men" style), with pencil skirts and flamboyant dresses my grandmother made her.
I remember sitting on our stoop in Queens during the summer waiting for her to get off the bus, which she took from the subway home. When I heard those heels clicking, I knew she was coming. She played poker and wore the same hair style from 1949 until just a couple of years ago, and the same lipstick, Revlon's Cherries in the Snow. Yes, they still make it; there are a few tubes around here somewhere. And, she always wore eye shadows in shades of purple to enhance the soft, green beryllium color of her eyes.
She was stabilized while in the ER. But, I watched her cry endlessly for her mother, and I felt the presence of our ancestors in the room. She's changed though. Now she appeared less tense and fearful; a bit more peaceful and comfortable. Today, she stared at me a long time with those eyes, and I know there's just a short time to bask in them. How does one prepare for that end?
First Published 1/25/2015 by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN
Photo, "Beryl," by Peter Cristofono
New Years Eve memories for some, (if they can remember New Years Eve) may be a blur of drunken kissing at the stroke of midnight. For others, it's the peaceful, solemn observance of Watch Night Service at church.
But for many, if not all, there are some traditions — superstitions, if you will — that are observed every year in order to ensure good luck, fortune and, yes, ward off evil spirits. In researching such traditions, I found some old familiar ones, but I also uncovered some unusual tidbits:
KISSING the ones dearest to you, or standing closest to you, ensures that the affection and friendship will continue for 12 months. If not, don't be surprised if you get the cold shoulder for 12 months!
STOCK your cupboards. You simply cannot start the new year with empty cupboards or wallets, or else the remainder of the year will follow suit. Strike one for me, not to mention that kissing thing.
PAY all debts. If the household is in debt, bills must be paid/mailed before Jan. 1, but don't loan money on Jan. 1 because you will be paying out all year.
FIRST one in better be a guy. This is a new one for me, but the first person to come in your door after midnight determines the year you'll have. He must be tall, dark-haired, good looking and bearing gifts. They should not be blond, redhead, cross-eyed, have flat feet, a uni brow, or God-forbid, be female! Do not, I repeat, do not allow a
female in the door first. I won't even tell you what can happen. Also, the first visitor, called "Lucky Bird," has to knock, not use a key, and leave through a different door than he came in. If you're having a party, don't be afraid to cheat and get a tall, dark-haired guy to hang out by the front door with gifts in tow so he can be the
first through the door at 12:01.
Absolutely nothing precious or otherwise can LEAVE the home on the first day of the year; not even that spoiled turkey from Christmas or last night's empties. Anything leaving means your luck leaves too. Don't even shake a rug out the door. Here's where it gets confusing: You can remove things from the home on Jan. 1 only if something else was brought in first. And, if you live alone, leave your lucky charms in a basket outside the door, pull it
in with a string, and never reach out to pull it in.
FOOD: We like the traditional southern practice: black-eyed peas to attract coins in our purse; cabbage to ensure folded currency; and pork. Never eat chicken or turkey on the first day of the year, because they scratch for their food, and so will you for the rest of the year. Poultry scratches backwards, cows stand still, but pigs root
forward, thus by eating pork, you will move forward into the new year.
Do something WORK-related that day; just a little bit. If you're idle on Jan. 1, you will remain so. However, do NOT do any laundry or wash dishes on Jan. 1 as a member of the family might get washed away (die) in the next 12 months.
You should wear something NEW on Jan. 1. Red helps with a bright future.
Don't BREAK anything at the first of the year, or you'll crack up. Do not cry on the first of the year, or you'll set the tone for the next 12 months.
Let the old year OUT at midnight. Open all doors and windows to let Father Time and his old year escape. He has to go before the New Year can come in. Shoo him out!
Go on and make all the NOISE you can at midnight. Loud celebrations scare away evil spirits. My neighbors are now familiar with my big brass bell. The devil hates noise, but don't cuss and wake him up on New Years Day.
On Jan 1, hopefully the WIND will blow from the south, bringing good luck for the coming year. From the north; a year of bad weather. Wind from the east brings famine and misfortune. And if it comes from the west, we'll have lots of milk and fish, but also, the death of a family member. How strange, almost all of our wind comes from the west around here. No wind? A good time will be had by all.
BABIES born on Jan. 1 are said to have luck throughout their life, and if you dance around a tree on New Years Day, you'll have luck.
Make sure to drain the last drop from a bottle you drink on New Years Day for good fortune. I am not, I repeat, NOT responsible for the outcome of this one!
So, there you have it. I didn't make this stuff up. But, it gives us food for thought. And, hey, we didn't even discuss resolutions! Happy, Happy New Year!
First published 12/31/2008 by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN