Waiting

In Waiting, I fuse the element of the still image character, with the moving smoke, that spirals upwards and fills the room with the character's anticipation.  I enjoy creating this type of contrast - the still image, versus an element of motion.  I also like to play with coupling motifs: the condensation on the window, partnered with the character's anticipation, and the smoke that seeps through the cracks in the wall, to find the character's beloved.  Similarly, I play with aspects of shading that enable me to have a softer smudged look, in contrast to a pointed and more focused line: the highlighted smoke, versus the harder edged umbrella.  I weave a personal motif  from our family life with autism into this piece (our six year old son lives with autism): the element of not being able to look directly at someones face, and the sensory processing difficulty, which the character experiences with the jumble of music, voices, and smoke.  Ever since I had originally created this drawing, I've had elements of a story cycling through my head.  This week, I put it down "on paper;" giving closure to this round of creation.  I wait no more!  The character is left suspended there, indefinitely waiting.  His experience of waiting, is tied into and reflected by the readers, who are being left with a question mark, thus also experiencing their own waiting. 

Waiting

Overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, perched high up on a cliff, lays an old rustic pub.   Inside, I position myself on an uneven wooden stool, leisurely nursing a spirit from the bar.  The balancing midpoint of the rocking of my seat, hooks me into the swaying motion of the sea water, way down bellow the cliff.  I can barely tell whether I'm on dry land, or out at sea.  Being far up above sea level provides me with some clarity of just how far I have traveled.

With my raincoat still on, I am only slightly warmer from the dampness of the rain and the draft from which I just came.  My umbrella, amongst other dark ones in the corner, drapes over a slanted coat rack.  The uneven texture of the rust colored brick wall, juxtaposes a backdrop to little consecutive drops of remaining rain water.  They descend from the umbrella trunk onto the floor, smoothly sliding down at their convenience.  The drops crackle down in a repetitive fashion onto the increasingly glistening wet surface.  With each downwards glissando, my pulse rises.  It loops in rhythmic thumps, just like the rain drops, almost audibly.

A dull ache continues to fill my chest with anxiety.  I attempt to focus on my breathing, just to slow down, to moderate some sense of composure.  Sweat beads form on my brow and smudge the glass of my lenses, leaving me all the more mindful of my own thoughts.  I remain adrift, much like the boat which I had just departed, far from coming into a satisfying focus.  Still, I sit there, waiting in the dampness of this room.

Condensation forms on the inside of an arched triangular window that overlooks the ocean bellow.  It layers onto the cold glass, as if consumed in its own anticipation.  It partners with that of my very own.  I wonder how long it would take for it to completely evaporate; perhaps as long as my own anticipation were to finally dissipate.

Still, I wait.

Settled in for a prime view, my gaze hypnotically locks onto the entryway.  I gradually forget about my little ails, as the effect of my drink now blurs them into a milder haze.  I am transfixed.  A dim light from a ceiling lantern hanging over the doorway, forms a cozy rendezvous for petite night bugs' delight.  Voices jumble in polyphony coincide with background music.  Phasing in and out, they become increasingly distant in their fading counterpoint.  Here and there, I am sobered into reality by someones staccato laugh.  Voices interlace with music, and music interweaves with voices, in a swirl which leaves me questioning if my senses are acutely heightened, versus further intoxication.  An overlay of smoke and the faint sent of alcohol in the air, ties this all into one confusing concoction.  I attempt to refocus on my breathing, to regain some sense of clarity.

Shadowed images pass by in my periphery, as if coasting beside me in slow motion.  I do not turn my gaze away to look at their faces, nonetheless.  I am not one who's comfortable with direct gazes, as I've been told that "the eyes are the windows to someones soul."   Growing up, I took that meaning too literally.  Until this day, it frightens me.  Only one face will capture my eye.  I will know it when it is time; I will recognize this particular silhouette.

Time seems to have suspended indefinitely.  It is in no hurry to appease my unswerving intent.  My eyes fixate on the antique metal keyhole on the arched wooden door.  If only the stroke of a single key turn were to conjure up the one I await.  Several times, I think that I see the door nob turning, but then, no one enters; my mind plays tricks at my own expense.

Still, I want.  Still, I hope.

Puff, inhale slowly, then exhale, and another breath, and another puff.  I sit there alone, in the scattered crowd, waiting.  Waiting is the only real thing over which I posses any sort of control.  Single strands of smoke from my cigarette float upwards and onwards, interlocking in their graceful assent, getting drawn to some mysterious sway.  They accept the lantern's subliminal invitation, becoming encapsulated by its magnetic glow.   Smoke elevates and thickens, smoldering with each of my passing breaths.  With each slow exhale, it spirals up, voluminously filling out the space of the increasingly clouded tavern.

With each exhale, the room expands with my anticipation.  Smoke escapes out through the cracks and into the cold air, to find the one that I await.  I am becoming part of the fixtures of this room; it knows of my desire.  The cracks on the walls mirror my journey.  Much like the sturdiness of the brick which they affect, nonetheless, they do not affect my resolve.  My spirit remains uncrackable.

I will not move from this one spot, as I had promised.  I will not betray.  Paralyzed by my own impassioned state; I do not dare part from this uneven stool.  I have waited already this long.  Maybe she is held up just a bit longer?  I am tormented by my trepidation, by my longing for her.  I want, but I do not know for certain what is yet to follow.  I remain suspended there, on a cliff, waiting.

Still, I love.  Still, I wait.

2 Black Keys

Piano, my oldest friend, I have known you since my seventh year.  My first instrument loaned from a neighbor's, while they were far overseas.  I used to go to their home and treat myself to your black and white keys, as if you were a candy treat.  I chose you, my oldest friend, but little did I know that this was going to be a life long friendship, like the 2-colors of your ivory keys.  Or maybe, it was you that chose to help me find my path: to help me express things without having to find words, without labels, without making things fit into boxes.  Not even needing to see pictures in my mind, I only need to hear your resonating sound, and my spirit is ever uplifted.

How could I not share music with my kids?   

Growing up, I always thought that when I have kids, I would of course teach them to play the piano.  Having taught piano lessons for over twenty years (hard to believe how fast those twenty years have flown), it seemed even more natural for me to want to do that.  With Jake's autism however, it wasn't going to be that straight forward, as nothing usually is with autism.  Even teaching the basic recognition of the two different colors of the keys, and that the black keys were grouped in alternating groups of twos and threes, was not so simple as it typically was when teaching others' kids.   If I ever encountered behavioral challenges of young kids, it was mostly because they didn't want to sit through a lesson.  With Jake's autism, it wasn't an issue of him not wanting to be there.  It was the challenge of finding a new unfamiliar way, that would work for him, to teach him what I have taught for years.

 

 Piano For Autism

I decided that I wanted music to be a part of Jake's ABA therapy.  I have his therapist use a toy baby grand piano as well as our upright acoustic piano, to have him repeat short basic rhythmic patterns that she plays.  This develops pattern recognition and aural skills.  Through his therapy and music being taught in an ABA manner (Applied Behavioral Analysis is the most common autism therapy that instructs with lots of short repetitions) I figured that he would build some tolerance to eventually sit through a real half hour long lesson with me.  I also did a bunch of experimenting, to see how long of an attention span I could get from him.


I did a lot of hand over hand instruction, so that he could feel the keys move under his fingers; tapping into potential muscle memory.  I tried to not speak a whole lot, since his attention span was short already.  When I did speak, I would do so in a consistent rhythmic pattern.  For example, I took the pattern of short-short-long while simultaneously saying "2 black keys" at least two times in a row.  I positioned his index and third fingers to make a V shape/peace sign, and with hand over hand did the "2 black keys" exercise with him.  He eventually followed along and started chanting those words in that short-short-long rhythmic pattern.  Since then, he has on several occasions, sat on his own at the piano, and did this pattern by himself while using his words.

I used the same type of teaching with the twins, even though they are not living with autism.  Using ABA teaching techniques can be used to teach anyone.  Kids living with autism will benefit from it the most, because they don't pick up on many things as naturally as their neuro-typically developed piers, especially social things (but that's saved for another blog post).  The teaching style of breaking a task down into several smaller/shorter steps with many many repetitions, is what gets optimal results.  

The twins are only three years old, so their attention span is not very long.  They just mostly want to play on the piano for a few minutes and move on to somethings else.  I don't push it on them or Jake.  I want to expose them to music and have them take interest by seeing me playing the piano.  I then have them play at their request and just interject brief spurts of teaching moments.  The other day, they were both fighting over playing the piano.  They both wanted to show me that they can do the "2 black keys" in rhythm.  So far, they have not differentiated between the groups of 2s and 3s, so they chant "2 black keys" while playing on the 3 black key group with an open hand.  Forget that peace sign Mom.  I don't force correcting them very much, because they want to be independent so much.


For now my old friend, I'll keep exposing the kids to your two-toned steps, and as their attention and tolerance develops, more teaching will take place for the musical Roses.  A moment of reflection puts things into new perspective for this one student.  Just as the two black piano keys repetitively resonate for my kids and unlock a world of possibilities; with one key turn I wave goodbye to my childhood piano lessons.  The second key turns, unlocking a door to a hope with new possibilities.  Once again, I am ever uplifted.

Musical Strings

Music ~ acrylics

Listening to Andras Schiff performing some of Bach's Prelude and Fugues on my drive home from the base today brought up some emotions to the surface for me - the main one being gratitude.  The genius of Bach never ceases to amaze me.  His musical thread initially starts out with direct sincerity, as if it were as simple as black and white, and then before we know it, a multitude of colors spin out majestically, leaving us at awe of what had just transpired.  They unravel multi dimensions of emotional depth.  Each layer pealed back, reveals gratitude for all of the little intricate details that connect our life's fabric.  A single spool spins out one seamless piece of string.  As it unravels, it unfolds for each one of us, our individual life's path.  

A man who had lived his life not being appreciated for his gifts yet, is only later appreciated and glorified after his passing - much too late.  As we reflect on what we not knowingly let slip through our hands through the cracks of music history, we ought to not let that happen with the little intricate details of our daily lives.  Some of the challenges that spin out our inner struggles, not yet capturing the lessons to be learned from their journey, may only seem black and white to us now.  However, if we let them slip through the cracks of every day's burdens, we may miss the later multitude of splendid color that would spin out too swiftly for us to appreciate.  Once the string completely escapes the grasp of its spool, there would only be a shadow left behind - only an afterthought.  It is with this mindset, that we'd only appreciate things after they are gone - much too late.

Clefony ~ charcoal pencils

Hold on to that piece of thread and take note of every unraveling rotation of that spool, because once the colors start flowing, it's hard to appreciate all of the detailed intricacies that turn that one piece of thread into our personal life's path.  Hold on to the little details with gratitude while they present themselves, and not after they spin right by you.  

There are many lessons to be learned from the life and artistry of one man who was too precious to be recognized during his life's spool of thread.  He was a visionary - ahead of his time.  If we had only known back then what we know now...imagine all the possibilities....all the musical strings yet to be played.

Creations

Clefony a made up word for a symphony of clefs
charcoal pencils



The Rose
charcoal pencils

  Seaweed
Acrylic 

Solitude
Pastels

Music

Acrylic

 

Waiting

Charcoal pencils

Musical plate

Blue
paint on tile

 Hummingbird
colored pencils

At the beach
charcoal pencils

 Deployment

The Kingfisher bird
colored pencils

Who knows what’s next....