tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38890863742073698032012-02-19T13:40:51.336-05:00My takeLizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.comBlogger731100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-48570814998514971332012-02-12T10:20:00.000-05:002012-02-12T12:45:21.593-05:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-49343339216570599682011-11-12T09:34:00.077-05:002011-11-13T08:04:43.459-05:00

As you many of you know, and for those of you who don't, I have recently gone back to school to study psychotherapy. After a lifetime of searching for meaning and purpose to my existence, this just might be it. Healing myself in order to be of service to others. <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:128;

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-20980643626256001382011-08-22T11:26:00.080-04:002011-08-29T11:46:05.265-04:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-12023196794220930862011-07-24T19:41:00.079-04:002011-07-27T16:40:47.174-04:00

A while back, I briefly dated a talented, intelligent artist who, on our second date, said: “Liz, I don’t want to talk about the past. Not mine. And not yours. I don’t care who you once loved, what you did in your life before me, or what you thought. All I care about is who you are right now and what we are doing together right here …” … as if I just magically appeared on planet Earth as a

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-12595377733001918792011-06-03T10:56:00.081-04:002011-06-11T16:33:56.270-04:00

@font-face { font-family: "ＭＳ 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "ＭＳ 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1;  2010 was the year I decided to date again. Date consciously, that is. As opposed to

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-52867006418832211712010-07-29T15:55:00.050-04:002010-08-02T08:24:03.975-04:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-10043506001790132992010-06-06T09:31:00.049-04:002010-10-13T20:36:39.083-04:00

There are two in particular I want to bring into the room. Because if I’ve learned anything from my life as an-experiment-in-trying-to-repress-my-most-neurotic-fears-in-public, it’s that the resulting eczema of the soul is not worth a nanosecond of social acceptability.[This is from http://www.wandelmaier.com/]No need to fear that I am about to now reveal something so humiliating that you will

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-84961029971912373562010-05-25T10:58:00.036-04:002010-05-28T08:03:08.700-04:00

So is love.I once thought about collecting all the club-footed things people said to me when beholding one of my paintings. But I didn’t collect them, and I can’t remember them, except for this one, which particularly stings when you fancy yourself a portrait painter: “Faces are hard . . .”Painting is agony. A friend who is also a painter called me the other day in a total flap because a client

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-42950955623812279882010-05-02T15:54:00.026-04:002010-05-08T11:41:46.568-04:00

I’m so over myself. I SWEAR!When I received the most courageous emails from fellow sufferers after my last post – tender, generous, honest messages from people who are not only fighting for their own lives in one way or another, but also bravely staying the course, against all odds in some cases – these amazing souls made me realize two things:1) I’m not alone (which is not some kind of

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-58489332747092907202010-04-29T10:11:00.023-04:002010-04-29T22:37:10.553-04:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-46618773709547798772010-03-02T11:31:00.034-05:002010-11-01T09:14:41.768-04:00

Dear Reader,I started this letter to Oprah on January 10, 2010. It was my Big Hairy Audacious Goal to get published in her magazine._______________________________________________________________________________Dear Oprah,I’m thinking about starting over. I mean, I’m thinking about the concept of starting over. About how the idea of starting over brings hope to even the most hopeless situations.

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-73719921613918442792010-01-10T10:18:00.024-05:002010-01-11T08:44:37.088-05:00

We all have one. And, no, it's not some naggy crone who goes clubbing with a hive of (gay) bees.A bee hag, or, properly spelled, B-HAG, is your greatest dream, your Big Hairy Audacious Goal.I first heard this term in a business meeting at which I was acting as imposter-cum-marketing expert. It was the year after I'd moved to Montreal to escape heartbreak and a painful graduate degree (which I'd

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-25908605010621007732009-12-15T18:03:00.040-05:002009-12-31T17:39:45.618-05:00

OK, listen up, creatures. I'm making a public statement here. The following is what I'm going to do this year:Get an article published in O Magazine (topic to be determined)Make a portrait of Oprah's dog(s) (an idea I've been obsessed with for far too long) Have some kind of correspondence with Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love)Pay an editor to read my book and tell me how to get 'er

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-91153173151973392662009-09-24T15:45:00.039-04:002010-01-01T17:37:29.422-05:00

On Dec. 7, 1989, the day after Marc Lepine gunned down 14 women at l'École Polytechnique in Montreal, my mother’s partner’s daughter (who was a 30-something lawyer at the time) insisted that Marc Lepine did not kill women; rather he killed “people.” This distinction despite the fact that Marc Lepine had deliberately separated the women from the men so that he could shoot the women, and despite

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-89172768126361813842009-08-22T17:51:00.027-04:002009-08-22T20:57:54.311-04:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-24224337224117989492009-07-11T08:52:00.031-04:002009-07-18T08:36:29.456-04:00

[Click pic: Thanks jgrnly] <!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-27597286701255462792009-06-29T17:14:00.034-04:002009-07-18T08:38:14.136-04:00

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Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-63929116841771255852009-06-10T22:10:00.005-04:002009-07-18T08:40:12.152-04:00

<!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable;

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-41938606551321213322009-06-01T11:48:00.021-04:002009-07-18T08:45:14.497-04:00

How many of you have had this conversation?Someone asks you about something you did and you say something like, “check it out, it’s on my Facebook page,” and they go, “I hate Facebook! It’s such a time sucker! I think everyone who uses Facebook is idle or bored or immature!”And you think, WTF????I wish it had happened about two decades ago, but it happened a year ago when I turned 40 -- I no

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-20174496613152709132009-05-20T07:17:00.016-04:002009-05-20T09:25:06.628-04:00

Every so often it happens. I write a post that causes someone pain, and I find myself learning a lesson I thought I’d learned already. Apparently I have more learning to do. All I can say for myself this time is that at least I swung into immediate action, apologized profusely to the hurt party while simultaneously pulling down the offending post (which one can do nowadays thanks to the

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-7096438980528224412009-05-05T19:36:00.038-04:002009-05-08T17:22:13.654-04:00

Joni Mitchell was mostly bang on when she asked, don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone? But I’d like to add a slight refinement to that sentiment – sometimes you can’t actually enjoy what you had until it’s gone and remembered instead.I can’t speak for others, but I know I live with a kind of fore guilt about a particular family member’s death. I know I

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-16199577418370174422009-04-28T13:07:00.027-04:002009-04-29T17:41:22.245-04:00

Yesterday, a friend of mine who is in the throes of that horrible necessity called the job hunt – potentially one of the most demoralizing experiences there is – wrote to ask my advice. (Never a wise move unless you are jonesing for a novella, coz that’s what you’ll get. This person does not know me well so he had no idea what he was in for. We are Facebook friends only. We’ve never met in the

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-4167870933220190712009-04-17T08:03:00.035-04:002009-04-19T08:54:05.826-04:00

Sometimes excitement is all we have, even when we don't yet know what purpose a person, place, or thing will serve in our lives.Lately, however, my excitement has been severely tested.I was not born an optimist. And I did not grow up surrounded by optimists. My father, for instance, can project every manner of calamity on the most innocuous of circumstances."We'll never make it!" is certainly an

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-89179614495280387462009-04-12T08:49:00.023-04:002009-04-14T15:51:55.463-04:00

In Januaray, I gave my digital camera to my friend, Sara (of the Star Wars Action Series fame). Her camera broke almost two years ago. She has been making do with her computer camera, which led to some truly innovative strategies and arresting images, but still, her talent is big and needs more tools, and besides (and more to the point) I’m greedy: I wanted a new camera. So.But I could not seem

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-33847908926519728672009-04-01T00:05:00.020-04:002009-04-02T07:11:42.298-04:00

I love running. It’s something I came to relatively late in life, not taking it seriously until I was 34, and after a childhood of believing I could do no such thing, as well as a teenagehood of always being the last one around the track during fitness week (and long after gym class was over). If someone had told me then that I’d become a runner, I would have handed them my large bag of Cool

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-88477855709704489392009-03-19T14:03:00.035-04:002009-03-19T22:11:33.063-04:00

Cliché, cliché, cliché. God, I love all three of them! That’s why I am writing a book in which cliché plays the leading role, a book I can’t seem to finish for a very clichéd reason: writer’s block.Here's an excerpt:This story is not new. And we all know how it ends. It ends. So why do we watch the same movie over and over again as if it might have a different ending? Because we love a good

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-84773500999650027502009-03-04T08:20:00.013-05:002009-03-04T13:55:25.350-05:00

I could not write this week. What I mean to say is, I could not write what I thought I wanted to write. I sat in front of my computer thinking I would craft the next chapter of my so-called book but nothing came. To help myself get going, I watched Elizabeth Gilbert give an inspired talk on TED about the nature of genius (she said it would be more productive for creative types to think as the

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-57654914374815987512009-02-20T08:08:00.022-05:002009-02-20T15:55:56.190-05:00

Yesterday I lost a tooth. It was no surprise really. I was told twenty years ago that I had two baby teeth clinging against all odds to the cliff of my lower gum. Neither tooth possessed roots long enough to take root, nor were there ever any adult chops lying in wait.Despite countless warnings from more than a mouthful of dentists, I not only continued to chomp down on popcorn over the years as

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-56290819026170481052009-02-11T13:45:00.028-05:002009-02-14T09:07:24.979-05:00

Some books hit you upside the head. Others split your sides right down the middle. This one does both. I'm not even half way through it and I want to buy a copy for every person I know. That's right, I'm extolling the virtues of a book I'm not even finished reading. That's how I-don't-even-have-an-emphatic-enough-word good it is. It has already delivered more hilarity, more poetry and more

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-92115956148953428482009-01-30T22:38:00.020-05:002009-01-31T13:08:13.117-05:00

We've all been there . . . When you are in a good heart and mind space, life feels like an enternity of making love on a sun-denched window sill beside a life-sized old-fashioned brass key that, um, well, that unlocks all the past pains in your heart, setting you free to love absolutely everyone around you. Like when you're drunk.And then, BAM, suddenly, for one reason or another, something

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-39505688027823761862009-01-20T15:47:00.023-05:002009-01-21T08:41:02.314-05:00

Since today marks the inauguration of someone I would definitely describe as possessing menschy characteristics (at least based on his kick-ass speeches) into the second highest office in the land (the first highest being that which bestows unconditional love on all, never filled by a person, per se, but always filled by the menschy choices every person is capable of making), it seems a good

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-32799593479200721582009-01-14T08:51:00.026-05:002009-01-14T12:10:03.119-05:00

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only way I seem to grow is via a process of extreme public mortification. Kind of like mugging for the camera, thinking you might just be the most sumptuously gorgeous creature on the planet, while remaining utterly oblivious to the bidet lurking in the background. That's my life in a nutshell.I swear to god I don’t know why I can’t learn from the

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-51969120435692826792009-01-02T08:27:00.019-05:002009-01-03T09:00:10.160-05:00

The response to yesterday’s post on decision making was so overwhelming in number and expressions of relating that I’ve decided to gift you all, my dear readers, with two great items given to me just the other day. Think of this offering as the blog equivalent to the loot bag Oprah gives members of her studio audience at the end of each show, except my booty bag does not contain a smart car. But

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-76964511303074367012008-12-31T21:03:00.021-05:002009-01-01T10:20:52.225-05:00

If there was one defining neurotic question that has plagued me most of my cognizant life, it would be this:I was almost released from the tyranny of this question by a much-loved prof who explained that decision-making is an irrational process: i.e. most times, there really is no right decision, only the one you make. There are always consequences no matter what. But the word "consequences"

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-25456130903735836582008-12-19T08:54:00.027-05:002008-12-29T18:58:03.441-05:00

Today I'm going to let the pictures do the talking (well, the leading). I decided to choose the images first and then see what comes up . . .This one is from a trip to Mexico I took with my friend Dale about four years ago. That year I was living in Montreal, had started a dog portrait painting business and was rapidly running out of money. I had not yet started working for my brother . . .

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-77714443271647984452008-12-17T09:50:00.020-05:002009-02-12T18:05:13.173-05:00

Maira Kalman's book jacket is a good start (or, middle, as she would say):What is this book? What is Anything? WHO AM I? WHO ARE YOU?STOP ITFORGET ITThis is a Year in MY LIFE profusely illustrated. Abounding with anguish, confusion, bits of wisdom. Musings, meanderings, buckets of Joi de Vivre and restful sojourns.The first the line of her book says it all: “How can I tell you everything that is

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-25790568491091208912008-12-13T17:37:00.028-05:002009-02-12T18:06:19.380-05:00

It’s been an interesting week in my personal Blog-O-Sphere. The zenith was receiving an e-mail from a stranger who stumbled upon my blog a few months ago, and who decided, after reading my piece about sadness, that my blog was “a keeper.” As if that were not gift enough, this stranger admitted to having read my entire blog and continues to read it! A reader! An enthusiastic reader! That made my

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-54441683028431551602008-12-09T17:05:00.016-05:002008-12-09T22:18:34.010-05:00

Sometimes I like to do this thing where I imagine I have “readers” (do I need to say "air quotes"?) And sometimes my “readers” do things like write me e-mails saying that my blog posts are “too long.” To which I reply, “then don’t fracking read them!” (Thank you, Battle Star Gallactica, for this most satisfying fuck replacement.) My insistence on writing my way could very well be the reason I

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-48758560348351372182008-12-05T13:23:00.011-05:002008-12-06T16:57:05.017-05:00

The first thing I read this morning was the following message routed to my e-mail via an online dating site. After introducing himself, the stranger asked me: “do you actually sell enough paintings to call it a profession?”This question is perfect. It exposes everything that has ever bothered me about the art world.“But there is no monolithic ‘art world,’ Liz!”I can hear my art friends protest.

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-86445138427538826792008-11-30T09:01:00.013-05:002008-11-30T11:34:28.766-05:00

I was so zoned out during my run this morning that it took a noise from a car to startle me into realizing – to my great horror – that I was smiling. What’s this, then? Could I possibly be feeling better?Nothing in my life has materially changed. In fact, I made some decisions last week that are likely to make me materially poorer! So, what’s to be happy about?! As I frantically searched my

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-18959617490177795262008-11-27T14:03:00.015-05:002008-11-28T06:26:50.720-05:00

Here’s a map of your life. Memorize it. And then erase it from your memory because it’s useless. And then never say "never" . . . Never is the new “now it’s going to happen for sure!”I swore I would never move back to Toronto. Never, never, never.I have this game I like to play: Part 1) what was I doing this time last year? And Part 2) what will happen this time next year? The first part

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-85784482844160730522008-11-22T10:24:00.013-05:002008-11-29T00:23:33.111-05:00

Boots. God, I love them.Having grown up in the land of Imelda Marcos, I suppose I was bound to develop a shoe fetish at some point. But until January of this year, I prided myself on being the girl who had only two pairs of shoes -- army boots for the winter, worn with everything from jeans to flowing flowery La Cache dresses, and Birkenstocks for the summer, worn in my youth with hairy arm pits

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-5133861303864649892008-11-17T08:48:00.012-05:002008-11-17T10:18:04.644-05:00

Half way through grad school, one of my professors told me that the graduate committee thought I should stop painting and start making conceptual art.I’ve always found that the strangest sort of advice: instead of working with my interests, with what I am doing, the advisor tells me to do something else, something I am not doing, something I have not even considered doing.The committee meant well

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-329175946325240132008-11-02T09:11:00.022-05:002008-11-02T17:05:35.955-05:00

I have blog guilt.For almost two weeks I have avoided writing a new post because I felt I had nothing to offer that was not going to be tinged with sadness. This concern came after a conversation with a dear friend who, looking out for my best interests, suggested I remove all references to depression in my blog. She advised the same thing for future dates -- do not talk about my struggles with

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-50325531021893991382008-10-19T09:09:00.011-04:002008-10-19T22:43:28.624-04:00

Yesterday, while working on a job proposal, and attempting to showcase my Web 2.0 knowledge thus far, I realized that I am a “somewhat” user. Without a cell phone or a blackberry or other form of PDA with which to send and receive a constant stream of Facebook updates, surf the Web for restaurants in the hood and access my e-mail for the latest work requests, I am certainly not a super user. (

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-18212647323526024172008-10-12T17:20:00.002-04:002008-10-12T17:28:21.393-04:00

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-20317067023726905312008-10-09T16:13:00.005-04:002008-10-09T23:09:06.675-04:00

On my 40th birthday, I watched Atonement and Into the Wild. I had read Atonement years earlier but not Into the Wild, so I had no idea how it ended. Deaths all around. I wept during and after both films as if the disasters had happened to me.The other day a friend remarked on how much mileage I was getting out of telling friends and strangers about my apartment fire. At the time I bristled,

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-40735107330420714512008-10-05T11:24:00.014-04:002008-10-10T23:49:15.330-04:00

The dead are among us . . .We believe we see the dead, hear the dead, and that we can talk to the dead. This belief is no less than the hope that when we die, we too will be seen and heard through the thin veil that separates life from death. While death is a fact of life, it is also the greatest metaphor for a state of being (or, a nothingness) against which we test our aliveness. Death is a

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-19679285168606822902008-09-29T05:57:00.009-04:002009-07-18T08:56:38.539-04:00

It’s the first day of Rosh Hoshana and I’m thinking: Elvis.Six Elvises, to be exact. Andy Warhol's silver Elvises all lined up in a row, six silver guns aimed at the viewer, point blank.“Speak!”That’s what those guns seem to say . . .. today. Speak your truth. It’s now or never. Well, at least until this time, more or less, next year.According to Lisa Katz’s blog (a primer for understanding

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-53439046326216305632008-09-27T03:40:00.022-04:002008-09-27T06:11:25.445-04:00

Traveling changes seeing . . .Here in Berlin, I often feel as if I’m looking through three eyes -- the pair that Berlin squeegees clean on a daily basis, and my camera’s third eye, blinking away the rest of the dust.I’ve been thinking lately about storefronts, about how you can see what’s inside their windows while simultaneously seeing your own face reflected on the surface. A shop window

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-76416346582501833942008-09-25T04:04:00.016-04:002008-10-07T20:56:35.555-04:00

I can’t hear the word without hearing Austin Powers from Gold Member excitedly saying, “twins, Basil, twins!” (referring to two Japanese school girls, Fook Yu and Fook Mi, names that, when spoken, elicit this response from Mr. Powers, also a favourite of mine , “you’re going the right way for a smacked bottom!”)But seriously, there really is something about twins . . .Twins, alter egos,

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-65342873872847181872008-09-17T05:39:00.012-04:002010-05-18T09:54:10.081-04:00

On my way home from my Dinner-with-Jews event, I stopped at the café bar where I’d had coffee the previous morning.I wanted cake.Nothing was open except for this café bar. I parked my bike and strode purposefully past the smoke-enshrouded Berliners nursing drinks. It seemed childish to be asking for cake at this hour when everyone else was getting drunk. But it's what I craved. And it's what I

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-13047768770537879842008-09-17T05:22:00.013-04:002008-10-11T00:07:03.123-04:00

Whatever experience I am having in the moment, I always seem to have it twice, often simultaneously: once while it is happening, and again as I tell the story to a specific person in my head, while it's happening. For instance, when I was riding Abi’s bike through Mitte and Prenzlauerberg, I realized I was now finding my way as Berliners do, keeping the television tower at Alexanderplatz in my

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-39441370417113287702008-09-13T17:38:00.004-04:002008-09-15T04:44:07.451-04:00

(Photo: detail of work by Wayne Cahill Barker)Sol leWitt to Eva Hesse:You seem the same as always, and being you, hate it. Don’t! Learn to say “Fuck You” to the world once in a while. You have every right to. Just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder, wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, gasping, confusing, itching, scratching,

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-50393292259401787172008-09-11T03:36:00.006-04:002008-09-11T06:04:22.666-04:00

I'm creating a special category of posts for my friends' amazing words (filed in Smart Words: Yours). . .I remain convinced that a partnership is not an easy "finally I made it" kinda thing. Huge chasms of misunderstanding are the norm. The tossing of a line (and reciprocal catching of said line), to build a friggin bridge is where the beauty lies. Exploratory love is easy and BIG; but

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-68095620456277895312008-09-11T03:15:00.010-04:002008-09-11T06:05:32.866-04:00

So many of you have sent me insightful, thoughtful and soul-lifting messages. I'd like to share them (filed in Smart Words: Yours) . . .From a friend advising on the process of creating (becoming):Time: it takes more than a summer or a year to build a book or a body of work. Some people work fast, and you may at some point. Some don't. Don't say if I haven't done it by. . . . . .I can't do it.

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-36519154936563573852008-09-10T14:57:00.005-04:002008-09-10T15:02:24.213-04:00

Today, as I was photographing my Berlin café experience, I realized that my computer screen was cycling through my Chuck Close series. I was taking a break from writing my book in which Chuck Close figures prominently, and there he was, staring at me, and there I was, photographing him, and there were the flowers on my table, both the flowers I hate – roses – and the flowers I love – daisies –

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-28295004331496012542008-09-10T05:30:00.019-04:002008-09-10T07:11:47.905-04:00

This is where my day ended, in Prezlauerberg . . .But before we get there, let's go back to the beginning. I started my day with a run (after breakfast and coffee, of course), during which I realized a few things (as I often do on a run) :1. I need to have my camera on me when I'm running.2. During my run along the canal, I realized Berlin is the perfect place to be unemployed. At 10:30 a.m. on a

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-61011334875956782662008-09-09T02:53:00.020-04:002008-09-09T05:44:48.523-04:00

I realize that some of you may not be checking my flickr site for pics. So, here are a few snapshots from Sunday. This is the view of the buildings across the street when I'm sitting on Abi and John's balcony.And this is the lunch I served on the balcony to Abi's friend, Eva. And this is Eva eating the lunch.And then she took me to an art fair near by, at which I photographed the pic below. It

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-66435474239378979462008-09-08T16:37:00.006-04:002008-09-08T16:58:20.551-04:00

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-61693731427478538672008-09-06T16:32:00.006-04:002008-09-18T09:50:20.184-04:00

Yup. I deleted a post today. When I wrote it, I was twisted up in knots and needed an outlet. By the end of the day, I realized I had become the kind of blogger I hate to read: verbose and self-absorbed. BO - RING. Plus, I felt exposed. Kind of like my friend above.But I still liked my original title -- Demographic of One. So I'm writing another post using that title. Reduce (size of post),

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-36937440220426880992008-09-06T06:04:00.006-04:002008-09-06T17:17:01.690-04:00

Isn't it interesting how memory works . . . I managed to get a hold of Nathalie Latham via e-mail and she very kindly gave me permission to post the text from her show, Speaking Through Water (what I erroneously called Talking Through Water in my review two posts ago -- so sorry, Nathalie!)Below is her intro and the thoughts people wrote on their papers:s p e a k i n g t h r o u g h w a t e

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-25628418983202702842008-09-05T07:15:00.005-04:002008-09-05T11:58:40.157-04:00

I was supposed to go to an opening last night in Charlottenberg to see the photography show of a friend of a friend of a friend. Charlottenberg is where my grandmother grew up. But neither the photographer, whose work I looked up on the Internet and rather liked, nor interest in my grandmother’s old stomping grounds, or even the opportunity to meet new people, provided enough of a pull. So, I

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-7771498754110118112008-09-05T07:00:00.005-04:002008-09-05T08:49:58.309-04:00

When I was in Berlin last April, Abi and John took me to the opening of an Australian artist, Nathalie Latham, whose works I had seen the week before in Toronto at 401 Richmond: a series of photographs in a series of vitrines, depicting Asian metro riders asleep on the train. The works made me stop and look, which does not often happen for me with photography. I did not put those pieces and

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-74496614824447582182008-09-04T15:41:00.007-04:002008-09-04T15:56:43.821-04:00

Forms of love 'Well, do you know,' said the Major, 'it seems to me there is really only one supreme contact, the contact of love. Mind you, the love may take on an infinite variety of forms. And in my opinion, no form of love is wrong, so long as it is love, and you yourself honour what you are doing. Love has an extraordinary variety of forms! And that is all that there is in life, it

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-70904397114604048422008-09-03T10:14:00.004-04:002009-07-09T11:54:34.881-04:00

It occurs to me that since I have converted even the most die hard meat eaters into salad lovers, the least I can do is share my recipe. Also, I shudder to think of all my friends who are going without while I'm away. So, here it is. Share it far and wide.IngredientsRomain or mixed greens, but NEVER ice burg lettuce (not even fit to be called lettuce)Sometimes I add fresh cilantro but only do it

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-11162370716277565682008-09-03T08:29:00.008-04:002008-09-03T15:38:13.180-04:00

This morning I remembered why I'm here: to write. Also, to take stock. No longer willing to make concrete plans, since my life is evidence of the ole best-laid-plans saw, but definitely wanting to nudge the direction of my life into areas that light my fire, I needed time away in another city to kick me out of my routine ways of thinking and being. Berlin is my new city of nudging in the way

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-43505171704316239512008-09-02T11:55:00.004-04:002008-09-02T11:58:20.928-04:00

For those of you who know that I like my coffee ON FIRE, I am thrilled to report that Germans, at least the ones at this café, serve their coffee as hot as hot can be. And it was not just a fluke. It happened twice! I didn't even have to ask! Now that's a sign of civilization. Bliss.

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-30947655663026542362008-09-02T09:38:00.005-04:002008-09-02T11:39:49.439-04:00

Day one was my taxi ride from the airport with a driver whose only English amounted to “Canadia” and “ice player,” and whose Spanish amounted to “Sangria!” and “Cuba libré!” and whose French was a Spanish word he tried to pass off as French. And yet we still managed to make each other laugh and to find Abi’s flat. If you want to have a conversation, there’s always a way . . .Then, I’m in the

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-4517582139474558682008-08-30T16:49:00.007-04:002008-08-30T20:56:40.693-04:00

This question reminds of one that plagued me at art school, "Why Chuck Close?" Why was I reproducing his 1968 self portrait image? I wrote an 80-page thesis about the possible whys but never really got to a clear because. So I started to write a ficto-memoir that might at least explore the question. I've written one chapter and bits of two more. I'm going to Berlin to work on the book. Or, at

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-15971812759711108192008-08-28T14:45:00.009-04:002008-09-14T03:39:21.877-04:00

Community -- building one, shaping one, educating one, and sharing one -- is, of course, the raison d'etre for most blogs. I have always thought of myself as social in the extreme, a community member par excellence, simply because I could have filled my calendar 24/7 with coffee and dinner dates. And I'm talking about friends here, not acquaintances. I have those, too. As you might imagine, it

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-44042260489561814142008-08-27T10:16:00.005-04:002008-08-29T00:30:11.087-04:00

I am on a self-edumacation path. Since I spend so much time on e-mail and trolling sites, albeit inefficiently, I decided to take the advice of one hellova geek and get myself organized: bookmarked and blogified.I spent a day last week setting myself up on a bunch of sites: Stumbleupon, Del.icio.us, FriendFeed, Twitter and then I built this blog, which I am now trying to reconfigure so that I can

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889086374207369803.post-64175866631020432282008-08-25T14:58:00.003-04:002008-08-29T00:31:58.104-04:00

There's nothing like reinventing yourself. At least, there's nothing like the myth of it. I have created a number of these opportunities for myself by moving to new cities in response to specific crises at specific times. I have also been handed the "opportunity" for reinvention via swift and painful sea changes that came in the from of break-ups (two) and apartment fires (one).The act of

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08054847263079980265noreply@blogger.com1