Obsessive Attentive readers may recall my post last week; specifically, the rant thoughtful reflection about pretentious author interviews. It seems I was just scratching the ass surface of that subject.
Dateline: Last weekend was the annual Open Studios tour, wherein participating artists in our county (Washington) and Portland open their studios to the public. On Saturday afternoon MH and I had gone to four studios, to see a glass artist, a graphics/printing/letterpress artist, a metal smith, a mixed media craftsperson.
On Sunday I had lunch at a local pub with MH. While we waited for our food to arrive MH read through the open studio event’s brochure, to see if there were more artists/studios we’d like to see that afternoon. The brochure contains a picture of a signature piece from each artist, along with a first person description of the artist’s history and work – basically, whatever and however the artist wishes to present themself to the public.
As I started to work on a crossword puzzle I heard a faint sound, almost a low moan, coming from across the table.
“Uh…you might want to read this artist’s statement.” MH’s expression was that of impudence mixed with nausea.
“You can read it to me,” I suggested.
“I don’t think I can stand to.” He passed the brochure to me. I began to read it aloud, but couldn’t finish the third sentence without hooting.
Growing up on three continents, I have been inspired by much of the world. I now live on 30 breath-taking acres in an old historic hunting lodge, capturing the beauty that surround me. My home studio is a destination in itself…
Moiself: ” ‘My whole life is a destination unto itself! How it sucks to be you, in comparison to me and the beauty which doth surround me…. “ And I thought fiction authors were at the top of the pompous pile. I am nominating her for honorary author status….”
MH: “Read on. It gets worse.”
Moiself: “Don’t you mean,’ it gets better?’ Because so far, this is fabulous.”
Turns out, we were both right:
My home studio is a destination in itself, amidst the wine country of Oregon, with 360 degree views of rolling farm land, Mt Hood and surrounding vineyards.
Educated in Apparel & Textile Design, I was L.L. Bean’s first apparel designer in the 80’s, Nike’s first Apparel Innovation Director in the 90’s, and launched Niketown.com during the dot-com boom. I now teach pastel workshops, amd (sic) I am represented by 6 galleries along the west coast. I am a board member and an award winner of the NW Pastel Society and am published nationally. 
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Department Of Things That Make Me Shriek At The Breakfast Table
Specifically, a thing which caused me to shriek My mother’s cousin!!! while reading the NY Times Arts section…which gave MH yet another reason to look across the table at me, his head slightly tilted and eyebrows raised in a quizzical manner.
Yeah, like that.
I had been reading The NY Times review of the movie, The Snowman,  and began to explain my shriek to MH…
Remember the story I’ve told you, when I was in grade school, and one night at the dinner table my dad was teasing my mom about her name….
For the benefit of those not related to me or who haven’t heard the story,  a wee bit o’ background info: my mother’s birth surname was Hole. . Yes, Hole. I sometimes teased her, about why her own mother didn’t keep her surname Moran but instead was willing to take on her husband’s…unique…family name: It really must have been love, or desperation….
Yeah, so, the story. At the family dinner table, occupied as per usual by my parents and their four children (on this particular night oh-so-many years ago, my older sister, younger sister and I were all in grade school, and our brother was an infant):
After my father’s customary So tell me about your day query, we dove into yet another round of thematic banter. Our family dinner table dialogues tended to focus on one subject, which was never (or rarely) intentional or pre-planned, but rather tangential from something which had happened to one of the Parnell siblings  at school. On that evening, I shared a story about a kid who had been teased on the playground about his name – the combination of his first name and last name made for some tease-worthy rhyme schemes. 
Marion Parnell said she felt sorry for the poor boy. Growing up with her particular last name, she knew exactly how he felt:
“My father was always telling my sisters and I how, in Norway, Hole was a respectable, upper class, landowners’ name. I lost track of how many times he told us we should be proud of our name. He just couldn’t understand how it was for us, because in America, it was just HOLE. Oh, I heard it all the time, the jokes: ‘Look, here comes Marion Hole, hole-in-the-ground…don’t fall into a hole!’ “
(I had also lost count of how many times I’d heard about Hole-is-a-proud-Norwegian-name assurances, and had come to think that our maternal grandfather had made that up to make our mother feel better. I’d never heard of anyone, of any ethnic background, with that name.)
My mother took little comfort from me telling her that her peers had been pretty lame in the joke department. ” ‘Marion Hole-in-the-ground’? I can think of a lot worse things to do with a name like…”
Chester Parnell jumped in, to save me from embarrassing my mother. Or so I thought.
“Well, Robbie Doll, you know what your mom’s middle name is?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “Alberta?”
“That’s right,” Chet nodded enthusiastically. “But you know, she was so beautiful, I never had any second thoughts about marrying an A. Hole.“
This produced shrieks of delight from the three Parnell daughters – first from me (my shriek decibel count was boosted by my pride in being the first one to “get it”), followed a few seconds later by my older sister, and then by my younger sister, who probably didn’t get the reference but knew something hilarious must have been said by the way her older sisters and father were reacting.
Mom had that tense/amused, trying-to-be-a-good-sport look on her face. Dad gazed across the table at her with impish affection – I knew something even better was coming up.
Chester B. Parnell: “Tell them about your cousin.”
Marion A. Hole Parnell (baring her teeth): “I don’t want to tell them about my cousin.”
Chet: “Tell them about your cousin. What was his name?”
Marion: (muttering) “His name was Harry.”
Chet: “And it wasn’t a nickname – his real name wasn’t Harold? And he didn’t have a middle name – just a first and last name?”
Marion: “That’s right.”
Mom, of course, knew where this was heading. She tried to act as if she were miffed, but I could see the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch.
Chet: “And so his name was…?”
Marion (deep breath): “Harry Hole.”
Professional stand-up comics would kill to get an audience response akin to that which erupted that evening, in the smallest of venues, the Parnell kitchen dining nook.
You’re waiting for the segue, aren’t you?
Back to the present: moiself, reading to MH, from the NY Times review of The Snowman:
There are a couple of mysteries swirling through “The Snowman,” a leaden, clotted, exasperating mess…blah blah blah…Mr. Fassbender plays Harry Hole…
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Department Of Reasons Why This Blog Is So (Relatively) Brief
There are reasons, but I can’t list them, right now. Suffice to say, they are…good.
I’ll be out of town most of the week…doing something really wonderful and fun and happy feet dance worthy.
I may write about it later.
Did I mention that it’s good news?
* * *
May you also be afflicted with Happy Dancing Animal Syndrome ®;
May you always remember, should you be called upon to compose one, that someone, somewhere, is actually reading your author/artist’s statement;
May a pun or naughty innuendo resulting from the combination of your first and/or middle/and or surname(s) cause someone to pee their pants with mirth;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 The artist who seems more than a bit taken with herself does do nice work, according to another artist friend of ours (who was equally amused/repulsed by the bio, but said she did enjoy that artist’s actual art).
 Because, having seen a preview of it recently, I had no intention of seeing the movie. I never read reviews of movies I intend to see. Just a thing of mine – I don’t want to be prejudiced, or figure out the spoilers.
 The latter group would not include anyone within a twenty mile radius of my dining table.
 Which is why, once my feminist worldview began to develop, I told her it was completely understandable that she never even considering retaining her birth name upon marriage
 Which translates into, usually moiself. Things were always happening to moiself.
 And although I remember with vivid clarity the conversation that ensued from me sharing that story about the kid being teased re his name, to this day I cannot recall what the kid’s name was – something along the lines of Bart Katz, which of course got turned into Barfing Cats or Fart Cats or the like.
The Stories I’m Not Cribbing | The Blog I'm Not Writing
Nov 03, 2017 @ 00:14:11