Bloody Caesar! Excuse The Outburst.

Bloody Caesar Shrimp & Chorizo Pilaf

In today's video, I do a pretty good job of playing dumb about what a "Bloody Caesar" is. That's because I'd never heard of it until my husband handed me a printed recipe from The Lemon Apron blog for Bloody Caesar Shrimp & Chorizo Pilaf. It's not hard to guess that a Bloody Caesar must be something like a Bloody Mary, though. A quick online search confirmed that the primary difference between the two drinks is the use of Clamato instead of tomato juice. So, for the first time ever, a bottle of Clamato juice was introduced to the CoolGray kitchen. I was pretty sure it would be vile. I can be that way sometimes. But, that aside, I'm also pretty good about experimenting, so we made the dish.

I also purchased some chorizo, which is not something I would typically have in unless it was part of a meat & cheese board at one of our holiday parties. But, I know that pork and shrimp like to hang out together in bowls of food, even though they'd never be caught dead together otherwise. With all the controversy settled, we were ready to cook!

Reading through the recipe, we knew the shrimp would have to cook with the rice for half an hour, and, since our shrimp were a bit smaller than the gimungus tiger shrimp called for, we left them frozen in hopes that they would cook through, but not become tough. That worked out beautifully. In fact, after reheating leftovers in the microwave, the shrimp were still succulent and tender, while the chorizo did become a bit too chewy. The biggest modification we made was the omission of both the red pepper flakes and cayenne. We were confident the chorizo would supply plenty of zing and we're not big spicy food eaters. There's also a little prepared horse raddish in the dish, which doesn't add heat but does help enhance the liveliness of the overall flavor profile.

With all that sharpness, the fluffy rice had a creaminess from cooking in the Clamato which was made a perfect balance. The finish with fresh-squeezed lemon juice, sliced olives, and chopped parsley contributed a freshness that brought the dish together in a really beautiful way! Our hats are off to Jennifer at The Lemon Apron for a delicious recipe we'll surely make again. Because it is her recipe and not mine, I won't publish it here. But, you should definitely visit her blog and read it over there. And, our modified version can be found in the description box of this video on my YouTube channel. Watch us make it together and taste it for the first time.

'Til next time, I am CoolGray.

30-Day Photography Challenge Day 3: Clouds

My back yard, this morning.

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all.

It seems I've known this song by Joni Mitchell all my life. I've been singing it since I was too young to really understand the lyrics. So, when I took a fresh look at them today as I was preparing to write this blog, it was a beautiful rediscovery. The layers of suggestion, the universal resonance, and the highly-personalize-able concepts sparked a bunch of memories for me. But, before I talk about those, let me tell you a little bit about this photo.

The guidelines I set for myself for this challenge were that I would take all the photos with my iPhone and would not alter or correct them in any way. So, no filters, no cropping, no exposure correction. I also remembered from the last solar eclipse we experienced that it's a very bad idea to point your iPhone directly at the sun. But, I figured I didn't run much risk of ruining the camera if I just pointed and clicked super quickly. Good news: My camera is fine. More good news, this photo is pretty cool! I couldn't see what I was shooting on account of that bright sun in my eyes, so I just held the camera up and clicked. Mostly, I was just grateful there actually were clouds in the sky today so I could meet the challenge! That wasn't the case yesterday when I was thinking about what I would do for today. I really love the flare that created that Saturn ring effect, as well as the refraction that introduces color I could not see with my eyes. And, as an artist who works in acrylic pouring a good deal of the time, I see something quite painterly in the way the blue and white play together.

Now, back to clouds. There are moments in my life that seem to live more vividly than others in my memory. I'm not talking about profound experiences or milestone accomplishments. I mean, there are moments that are kind of like Boomerang images on Instagram, little brief loops, clear and bright, that I can call up at will. There are only a handful of them, and they're not really big moments in my life, rather moment when a particular sense was deeply impressed. For example, when I was around 16, I had a bright yellow peasant dress with tiny red flowers on it. I wore it a lot. One day, I stood on top of the hill that was my grandparents' front yard and looked down at the highway below. The skirt fluttered in the breeze and the grass was particularly green that bright summer day. Nothing much was going on in that moment. I was just standing there, idling. But, all these years later, I can still see that yellow skirt fluttering against that green grass, like a gem in my memory crown. Do you have any memories like that?

The memory that relates to clouds is from much earlier. I think I was 5 or 6...7 at the most. My dad had turned half of our back yard into a pretty impressive vegetable garden. It wasn't just a little patch. It was a serious garden, well planned out, with neat rows, a cold frame, and a path down the middle that led to the woods at the back of the property. One day, right at that woodline, I sat in dad's red wheelbarrow and just laid back, my legs dangling between the handles. I remember the smell of the soil, always pleasant to my nostrils. Again, there was a gentle breeze. But, I think it was probably the first time I ever spent time just gazing at the sky and watching how the clouds changed as they moved across my field of vision. This day, I saw a giant rabbit's head in the puffy whiteness. I stared and stared, trying to fill in the areas that the cloud had forgotten. And, then, the shape that was so clearly defined a moment before distorted and began to disintegrate, so slowly I wasn't sure it was happening at first. When it was clear my bunny was going away, I felt sad for a moment. Then, a turtle floated into view and all was forgiven. I can still see those shapes and the way they changed as though I were looking at them right now. It was just a moment, but it formed an indelible mark, for some reason. I can still feel the metal under my back, and the way the rounded edge of the wheelbarrow pressed into the back of my head. There wasn't anything noteworthy about the moment that my conscious mind can discern, but whatever makes these calls felt it needed to be filed for posterity. 

I notice now that both of these moment have color in common. The blue and white of the sky, the yellow and green of the skirt in the grass. I mentioned in my last blog that color is something I'm deeply connected to. Maybe that connection is founded in those moments.

Joni's song also talks about seeing clouds from both sides. Flying in an airplane above the clouds is an experience I love. I haven't flown in many years, though. Since 9/11, flying has become much more difficult, and my husband doesn't enjoy air travel, so we've mostly driven where we want to go for the past many years. We'll fly again in September, when we visit Italy. I'll no doubt take note of the clouds. A sunset from 35,000 feet is just spectacular! The oranges and purples are uninterrupted by any land mass or tree limb. The clouds just open their arms and embrace the color, soaking it in and reflecting it back across their undulating blankets at the bottom of my field of vision. It's peaceful and breathtaking. But, the song talks about clouds' illusions we recall. There aren't, in fact, any rabbits or turtles. And, that blanket I see out of my plane's window is really no place anyone would actually want to be. You can't see how cold it is, or how un-fluffy that blanket actually is. And, that starts me thinking about the illusions we all chase in our lives; those goals we pursue that will probably never satisfy us, either because we don't ever achieve them or we find out on arrival they weren't what we expected. 

For me, I know I spent years, particularly the years after we moved from New York to Florida, trying to fit in, feel a sense of belonging, and be accepted by those around me. In my New York years, I did it mostly by setting myself apart, making myself so uniquely fascinating in some very self-destructive ways, that people just wanted to be around me. That's kind of a New York thing, or it was in my time there. In Florida, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. I'm an Italian-American, loud, New York woman wanting desperately to find a home among the drawls, the a-line dresses, and the Southern "charm," which can be treacherous if you don't watch yourself. We attached to a church (a couple of them in our time here, actually) and I paid close attention to the messages sent about what was expected of me as a Southern Christian woman, or, in one case, as a person affiliated with a specific church. I was happy to comply. I changed my hair color and style, the way I dress, the kinds of movies I watched, and even the vocabulary I used. Where intellectualism is celebrated in the North, I quickly tired of hearing people here in the South tell me they thought I was amazing, but they found me intimidating, letting that be their reason excuse for not growing a friendship. I spent years willing to make any modification I thought was called for in order to feel like a part of the crowd.

One day, after a very traumatic experience that is a story for another day, I realized I was a "cloud illusion," and I not only didn't know what else I could do to gain acceptance, but I had forgotten who I really was. I had to separate myself from almost everything and everyone I had been associated with for the previous 7 years in order to rediscover myself. When I did, I realized I like myself a lot more than I liked the person I was trying so hard (and failing) to be. So, I cherished the few friends who stuck by me through it all, let the rest go, grew out my bob and stopped coloring it, and watched any damned film I wanted to! It was my year of authenticity and it was where "CoolGray" was born. It's when I began using the YouTube channel as a way to practice my rediscovered authenticity and recover from the trauma I hinted at earlier. Today, I'm grateful for the fall, as it made way for all the good stuff that came in its wake. It is truly wonderful to be living from a "This is who I am -- take it or leave it," perspective. Fortunately, who I am is courteous and compassionate, so there's still plenty of opportunity to please those around me without feeling caught on the hamster wheel of trying to please absolutely everyone. I really don't know clouds at all. But, at least the mist has cleared.

'Til next time, I am CoolGray

30-Day Photography Challenge Day 2: What You Wore

Cool Gray Studio

I found it interesting that today's prompt was phrased in the past tense. Much of the time, what I'm wearing is not particularly photo-worthy since I work at home. But, this apron is on a journey in 2018 and, as I noticed it taking this siesta on my studio couch, I thought it had a definite sense of something done...it had clearly been worn. Of course, I'll wear it again...and again. Once a month I take 30 seconds of video so I can document the journey of the apron through 2018 and post a video on my YouTube channel in December. On January 1, it was pristine. Here, it's only the end of April and I honestly get a warm, happy feeling every time it gets a new spot, splat, or swipe of color. It shows the journey and that's what this year is all about for me.

Each time I lift that apron over my head and lay it down (or hang it up, if I'm being a good girl), it has been worn and bears the mark of whatever the current creative project is. Looking at it is almost like flipping through a favorite photo album. each color reminds me of the project it belongs to and the experience I had creating it. It's a good feeling. A healing feeling. And, if you're following along, you'll know from previous blogs that making art is a vital therapy for me. So, when I look at this photo, I feel a sense of accomplishment, grounding, and satisfaction. In a way, I see evidence that I am here on the planet and there will be some legacy left once I leave it. That's not arrogance; it's more the desperate hope that our lives meant something that I think we all feel to one degree or another.

I want to talk about art for a moment. I was a Fine Arts student for a few years way back in the 1980s. I learned all the things an art student learns then: Color theory, figure drawing, perspective, design and composition, sculpture. And, art history. I learned about all of the "important" artists through the ages, all the names of all the styles and eras, and why they mattered. Last week, I saw the film, "Final Portrait," a quiet character study of Alberto Giacometti. Watching this depiction of an "important" artist struggling with his own perception of his work brought back a bunch of memories of those classes. Giacometti anguished that he was either on the brink of ruining his current work or had just done so, irretrievably. I think that's something anyone who creates experiences. Certainly, I do. But, more importantly, those feelings had a lot to do with why I didn't pursue a career in art when I was in art school. The more I learned, the more I convinced myself I simply wasn't talented enough, or important enough, to call myself an artist. I constantly compared my work to those around me to whom form and design seemed to come naturally. My own father is a natural talent in that regard. I couldn't draw anything that looked balanced or realistic, so I decided I was untalented. I got a corporate job and decided art was just a hobby for me.

It's over 30 years later, and the world has profoundly changed since 1980. In particular, the art world. Today, "important" art (that is to say, art for which people will pay millions of dollars) is defined more by the celebrity of the artist or the marketing spectacles created around a piece than any adherence to the rules and guidelines I learned about in art history class. If one famous person has paid a fortune for someone's giant sculpture of a piece of fruit, suddenly everyone who has millions of dollars to spare wants their own giant piece of fruit. The documentary, "Blurred Lines," on Netflix makes this point far better than I can. If the subject interests you, watch it. Essentially, it concludes that art today is whatever the artist produces and whatever the consumer wants to own. There's something sad about that to me. In a way it's evidence of a decline of civilization...of a bygone era of elevated tastes and refined opinions. I'm sure there are still plenty of gallery owners who believe they possess both of those things, however, so I guess I won't allow myself to mourn too much.

Another phenomenon has also affected the art world for those of us who don't have millions of dollars to spend. The blending of the art and craft worlds has made room for me and for many others to explore ways to use simple techniques and supplies to create affordable works of art other people actually want to purchase for their homes. I'm one of many YouTube artists who demonstrate, experiment, and teach others how to do some of these things. Etsy, craft fairs, and private commissions have opened up a whole new world of marketable art. (For Seinfeld fans, it's like Festivus for the rest of us!)

When we creators talk among ourselves about the ongoing debate on what the difference is between "art" and "craft," and whether any of us has a "right" to call ourselves and "artist," I see a new pride has emerged, a new confidence that comes along with time and effort spent to make something and make it well. There is a community of mutually-supportive artists who are willing to share their techniques and their art to inspire others. Sure, there's still a struggle with "ownership" of a design concept and some sense of competitiveness for eyeballs and sales, but the internet has allowed us to work that all out together, real time, for better or worse. I'm going with better. I'm going with better because this community introduced me to acrylic pouring, dot art, and some other forms of artistic expression that busted down the brick wall between art and me and allowed me to find a way to create something that feels authentic and has a healing benefit for me. That just can't be bad.

It is only this year, 30 years after art school, that I can unhesitatingly say the words, "I'm an artist" when introducing myself. While I may feel the rest of the world had to lower its standards in some way to allow this to happen, I'm also grateful that art is now available to me in a way it has never been before. One of the artists I follow on YouTube said it best, when she said, "Art is not about talent. Art is a desire. We make art because we deeply desire to do it." Yes to that. I want to be quick to add that I still have a world of respect for artists who have spent a lifetime disciplining themselves, refining their art, have genuine talent, and make great fine art. However those artists may feel about sharing the playing field with people like me, I'm happy to be on it.

It has always been the case for me that I am most at peace when I am surrounded by color in the form of paint. Color, I think, makes me happier than most things. The smell of an art studio is heaven for me. I am so grateful to my husband for understanding what PTSD does to me and why it keeps me home-bound so much of the time, and also what art does to heal me. His mother was an artist, too. He really does get it. So, I am an artist. My apron is what I wore. My journey is to be shared. I'm glad you're here on the path with me.

'Til next time, I am CoolGray