Make a Face

When I bought this game for my granddaughter, I nearly bought one for myself.  The idea is to create faces from the 160 facial features — photographs by Saxton Freymann of street debris and other found objects, leaves, shells, and branches. My inner adult overrode the inner child, admonishing the idea as totally juvenile. Had my inner teen been awake she’d have rolled her eyes and retorted, “Well, yeah. Your point?”

During our week’s visit with Olivia and her family, I got my chance. Olivia and I built face after face. She went on to play with another toy while I made faces for a while longer. Each face had its own personality, its own emotional aura. Some were silly; some were grumpy; some were quite lovely. What a brilliant concept — creative, simple, endless possibilities.  Order a set of About Face. If your inner adult balks, tell her to take a walk.  Or better yet, invite her along to play with you. and if you make a face, send it along for me to share.



Wish You Were Here

Once upon a time we sent vacation postcards to friends and family back home. Now we’re all back home on (working) staycations and everyone else is far away. When the pandemic hit, I began sending postcards to older friends from synagogue. Due to the risks of communal living during Covid, their worlds contracted suddenly and drastically.

It surprised me how much fun it’s been and how much people enjoy recieving them.  A postcard allows me to pen a quick hello, I miss you, how are you? I love choosing beautiful images to share and get a shot of pleasure imagining my recipients’ smiles when they arrive. Who gets mail anymore, right?

When I ran out of my stash, I began making them. Sometimes I create abstracts on larger sheets of cardstock and then cut them into 4 x 6 cards. Other times I paint or collage something small on an individual card. You don’t have to be an artist to do this. You just have to have a sense of fun and let the good feelings you have for your recipient come through. For a treat I bought a box of 100 flower-themed postcards — ten cards by ten different artists. A true garden of good wishes waiting to be given. I’m working my way through the box, planting a bit of joy with the help of a 35¢ stamp.


She might be too strange to send, but I had fun painting her.


postcard credits, above: Debra Darvick
l. to r.: Adam Rodriquez; Loretta Montagnar; Maud H. Purdy.  

Call It Play

Why is it so hard to do the thing our heart cries to us to do? Why do we, okay, why do I, stall? Why do I let go of the tow rope when I’m sailing along only to tumble beneath the surface into cold waters of self-doubt and recrimination? Fear? Sloth?

When I listen, when I give my heart what she wants — to make art — we’re both so happy. Maybe I shouldn’t call it “making art.” Maybe I should just call it playing with my watercolors and acrylics, my markers and paper trove. Make implies a finished product and finished product is weighted with judgment. Make implies an end while play remains firmly within a borderless present.  Yes. Yes. Yes.

From Beach Trash to Art

Deborah Hecht and I have been friends for nearly four decades. Her mother introduced us (another story!). We both measure a hair under 5’.  Our sons were born a month apart. We share an affinity for lots of color, whimsy and have been known to buy the same set of dishes among other things.  Given the chance, she will proffer a dissimilarity — my feet are four sizes larger than hers.

Deborah knew she was an artist from the first crayon. She remembers making the pronouncement when she was six years old that she was an artist I did make a pronouncement at age 6 that I was or was going to be an artist.

I have had the joy of watching her artistry evolve from paintings on tile, to carved tile installations to found-object sculptures to her latest  oeuvre — crazy-wonderful collages made entirely from the beach trash she finds on her walks along Lake Michigan. Those four bags snuggled up to her? Balloons. Deborah’s collages are as gorgeous as they are heartbreaking. How careless too many humans are. But there there are the rare humans who see the potential in what others toss and use it to make art.