To Reteach a Thing Its Loveliness

Posted on by connieottmann

We need to develop the Buddhist practice of metta or lovingkindness…and the benefits are worth it.

Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

When I read the phrase To reteach a thing its loveliness…just let that sink in for a minute… it felt like a lifeline, like a comforting beacon of light after being lost on an uncharted sea of anxiety, fear, and growing anger.

Reading further in Sharon Salzberg’s book, Lovingkindness: The Revolutionary Art of Happiness, I learned this is the nature of metta, which can be translated from Pali, the ancient language of Buddhist scriptures, as unconditional love or lovingkindness. 

It is the first of the brahma-viharas, heavenly abodes, and supports the others that include compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity. The metta meditation is an opening of the heart and a wish for not only our happiness, but also for all beings. The Buddha first taught the metta meditation as an antidote to fear when it arises and feels overwhelming.

Could there be a better time to practice this?

Hitting month three of quarantine here in NYC, along with the ensuing explosion of the BLM movement, I needed a soothing balm to quell the guilt and an almost self loathing, for not having contributed more to society in some meaningful way, for being an elder and higher risk burden. 

The pandemic has become more and more about politics and the economy uniting us in different camps of hatred: the haves vs. have nots, liberal vs. conservative, red vs. blue, entitled vs. essential, black vs. white. Social media, originally created to feed our very human need to connect, has, instead, amplified our separateness, and it has spilled on to the streets.

I’ve read about regular people lashing out verbally at others for not wearing a mask or social distancing. Plenty of times I’ve passed pedestrians on the street and police at protests and silently judged them for being arrogant and selfish for the same thing. Hating this reaction, I found myself stuffing my feelings to lessen the pain. This is where we get in trouble as Salzberg aptly explains: 

Sometimes as individuals, or as members of a group, we may sacrifice the truth in order to secure our identity, or preserve a sense of belonging. Any thing that threatens this gives rise to fear and anxiety, so we deny, we cut off our feelings. The end result of this pattern is dehumanization. We become split from our own lives and feel great distance from other living beings as well.

When I read the words, To Reteach a Thing Its Loveliness, I was blown away by the beauty of the message and recognized instantly this was something I could do, as just one small person, to be an agent of change.

 The practice of metta begins with loving/befriending ourselves, no small feat. I know. I’ve been a heavy weight titlist in the “beating myself up”ring for decades. But we have to begin with loving ourselves…despite our weaknesses and failings…before we can mirror it back to others. This mirroring brings it full circle.

The practice of metta begins with short meditations that begin with oneself, and then work outwardly to a loved one, someone neutral, and, the most difficult, an enemy. The meditation focuses on silent repetitions of phrases such as “May you have ease of well-being,” May you be free from danger,” “May you be healthy and strong.” Yes, it gets more difficult as you move outward. It is especially hard to wish happiness to an enemy, but this is the work of unconditional love, the driving force of healing. Even if you aren’t feeling the love, don’t give up. You are planting a seed, setting an intention, and that is enough. 

As if the nature of metta isn’t just beautiful in and of itself, the Buddha outlined eleven specific benefits. Your practice will reap the following rewards:

  1. You will sleep easily.
  2. You will wake easily.
  3. You will have pleasant dreams.
  4. People will love you.
  5. Celestial beings and animals will love you.
  6. Celestial beings will protect you.
  7. External dangers ( fire, poison, weapons) will not harm you.
  8. Your face will be radiant.
  9. Your mind will be serene.
  10. You will die with a clear mind.
  11. You will be reborn in happy realms.

If you’ve always wanted to start a meditation practice but felt it might be too hard, this is a great place to start. A few minutes a day is all you need to begin. I’ve recently added metta meditation to my regular meditation practice, and I’m feeling more hopeful and optimistic. 

On daily walks now there are more frequent, tiny moments of connection with total strangers I pass on the street or on a front stoop. It might be a verbal hello or a silent, mutual nod of the head that says I acknowledge you. Smiling eyes behind the mask. It’s a small moment of connection, a much needed dopamine hit of goodness. Lovingkindness is a powerful energy to radiate.

And I’m sleeping better.

So, if we should ever pass each other on street, know I am silently wishing, “May you be safe from harm,” “ May you be healthy and strong,” “May you be truly happy.”

What a lovely thou

Is Sheltering in Place in the Big Apple an Opportunity for Personal Growth?

Posted on by connieottmann

After searching for an answer, the big reveal is, yes.

Author photo. Greene Avenue, Brooklyn, NY

I kept asking myself over and over again, Why now? Why the hell now?

In October of last year, I fulfilled a life-long dream of moving to New York City. After months of journal writing and mulling it over, I made the decision it was the perfect time. The winds of change propelled me forward, and magically things fell into place. My adventure manifested, and I was challenging myself doing new things and working hard. In February, as a result of a written piece I submitted, I got an interview with The New York Times, in one of their regular feature columns.

And then … BOOM.

After a short, four-and-a-half months of New York City WOW, disaster struck. The greatest city in the world suddenly crippled. Its beating heart of creative energy, suffering cardiac arrest was left an ICU patient with no visitors allowed.

Without notice, and cut off from all the art and culture I was drawing inspiration from, I found myself alone in quarantine. Like everyone else, I was left reeling in a state of confusion and fear. At the same time, I kept wondering why had this happened when prior to the pandemic all systems were go? My adventure was looking more like a quest, and my biggest trial was facing an invisible foe who could, quite literally, take me down. I was going to have to dig deep to answer this one.

Nagged by this question of why, I, nevertheless, held steady and made the best use of my time writing, painting, reading, and observing.

And then one day going through some old notes, I came across a quote I had written down . It was from a list of “68 pithy bits of unsolicited advice” to the young, compiled by author Kevin Kelly, who helped launch Wired magazine. Even though I’m old, it hit like an resuscitative electrical charge:

“When crisis and disaster strike, don’t waste them. No problem, no progress.”

Well, I certainly was experiencing a crisis, but how was I going to change my perception and make it positive? I had come to the city to foster my own curiosity and creativity. Maybe quarantine and sheltering in place were just the environments I needed to buckle down and make real progress with my writing and painting. Feeding a passion takes solitude and focus.

So I dove in and keenly observed the changing world around me. Every day I wrote or painted with an energy that surprised me. I discovered a new painting medium using recycled trash and even submitted a couple of articles to different publications.

I had nothing to lose.

But it was hard.

Any creative endeavor or change of habit requires us to access our higher nature. And you will know you are on to something because resistance, in its many forms, will rear its ugly head . For me, resistance comes from things like Netflix, social media, and Zoom constantly calling me to come play. Of course, I enjoy these things, but only after I’ve completed some work time. Wrestling resistance requires a Herculean effort, but staying focused yields results.

My confidence kept growing.

As further proof that I was on the right track, I happened to read through more notes I had taken several years ago and was jolted by another message that was waiting for me. In Letters to a Young Poet #7, written in 1904, the poet Rilke( only 27 himself) writes back to a young man looking for advice about his writing. Rilke’s response echoes the very same stumbling blocks of resistance and hard work. That in his practice of solitude, the young man might find himself distracted by the conventions of his day, might be tempted to take the easy route rather than trust in what is difficult, which would reveal his true artistic self:

“…it is clear that we must trust what is difficult; everything alive trusts it, everything, in Nature grows and defends itself any way it can is spontaneously itself, tries to be itself at all costs and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must trust in what is difficult is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason to do it.”

So crisis and disaster have struck, and I’ve found the answer to my question, Why now? I’m choosing to see this problem of a pandemic as a personal challenge in making progress towards becoming the best that I can be.

I’m currently working on a series of paintings I hope to show in the near future and writing articles I hope to see published. I’m even entering a large scale commissioning art program here in NYC. Completing the application has been mind bending; I know it’s a long shot.

Working on it is hard.

But when I hit the send button to submit my proposal, regardless of the outcome, I will be happy I gave it my all, knowing…

“…that something is difficult must be one more reason to do it.”

Cat-Like In The Window, The Day’s Drama Plays Out Before Me.

Posted on by connieottmann

Although my view of the world has literally narrowed, it is no less entertaining,yet, intimately, human.

Michael Hollander for Unsplash

And it seems that when we think no one is looking, whether under the cover of darkness, or in plain light of day, someone is. 

In mid March, after the state of emergency was declared, much like Prospero and his guests in The Mask of the Red Death, people began fleeing the city to country homes. One early evening, I looked out my window to see a middle aged man (not from this Bed Stuy neighborhood) across the street furtively removing his NY plates from, first the front, then the back of his Audi SUV. He quickly stashed them on the floor of the back seat, got in, and drove away plateless, to … I can only assume… a suddenly sprouted pandemic entrepreneur who would attach a set of out of state plates so he could covertly blend in. 

I was indignant. What a coward. Selfishly exposing a community with limited heath care facilities. But then I caught myself.

I Took a moment to be still, rather than running away with judgment and asked myself the question, would I do the same if there was a second home somewhere with lots of space and fresh air to enjoy? Ah.. probably, yes. But I’d like to think no.

A few weeks later, meat packing facilities are stricken with positive tests and must be shut down. Will hoarding of meat begin? I look out my window as a pickup truck pulls up, double parks, and a neighbor comes out to collect what looks like eight to ten large packages of assorted cuts of beef. It’s started already. 

But then I remember the same guy who lives alone with his dog and who speaks lovingly and takes this pit bull mix out each morning and afternoon for a walk. Could this stash be a treat not only for him but also his companion, a reward for unconditional love in times of loneliness?

On Sunday morning, a homeless man sporting a huge, flapping coat and Nike flip flops shuffles by pushing his shopping cart overflowing with scavenged goods. He stops, carefully unpacks items from a plastic bag one by one, and selects an article I can’t quite see. He rolls it on in quick, short strokes to his mustache, rubbing it in, then his scruffy beard and neck and gives them a good rub too. It isn’t until he reaches under his coat and shirt and applies it to his under arms that I realize what it is. 

I’ve worn the same clothes for a week and haven’t washed my hair in days. I’ve even skipped deodorant a few times in the process, yet I have the same warm, safe place to stay every night.

It’s Saturday night and a car pulls up and idles out front. A woman ambles to the side window, and an exchange is made. She quickly does an about face and returns inside. In these times of high anxiety, we can all use a little help from our friends, be it Johnny Walker or Crimea Blue. People gotta stay medicated in this plagued economy. 

My drug of choice is chocolate, so I play the odds taking unnecessary trips to the local bodega.

Since the world has been put on pause, this virus has brought into focus our human frailties. Those frailties come from a place of fear. A fear of separateness.

Perhaps if we practice loving-kindness with ourselves and then mirror it back to others, we just might be a little more forgiving all the way around — get through this in one peaceful piece.

Will Convenience/Instant Gratification Be Our Undoing?

Posted on by connieottmann

A City’s exorbitant cardboard trash got me thinking about our excessive consumption, and, in this Covid-19 reality, creating.

Author’s portrait of Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. Oil and x-acto knife on recycled cardboard. Covid-19 series. Cutting into cardboard give a 3-D effect.

I’ve longed to live in NYC for years, and when it became a reality this October, it didn’t disappoint in showing me a rich banquet of stimuli that could satisfy the senses of any appetite. But an interesting side effect, a slight indigestion, grew as my awareness sharpened and revealed some of the underbelly amidst the dazzle.


Sure, I expected to see skittering rats on the subway tracks and a cockroach or two. What I didn’t expect were mountains of trash, especially cardboard, left curbside most days. This begged the question why do we have to have so much? All you have to do is look at the growing trend of self storage units that have become a blight on the landscape anywhere in the U.S. We have so much damn stuff, we need additional space to house more damn stuff. And then there’s the environmental impact.

Back in October an average of 1.5 million packages a day were delivered to NYC. In addition to the congestion, add to that the growing concerns about carbon dioxide emissions and deteriorating infrastructure.

For most of us, myself included, these growing concerns flicker to a weak flame for a moment in our consciousness but then quickly get tamped out by our desire for convenience and instant gratification so easily attained with the tap of a finger.

But this pandemic is an opportunity to reevaluate, reflect, to go deeper.  By going deeper I mean calling on our higher nature to do the right thing instead of succumbing to our lower nature that always demands I want it now. Essential workers’ lives in this plague economy are on the line, and that includes people filling orders and delivering goods. We’ve got to be asking ourselves is this something I need or something I want? Is it an emergency? Then act accordingly.

Author’s painting: Fort Greene Park, Brooklyn, NY. Oil and x-acto knife on cardboard. Covid-19 series.

Like millions of others, I’m trying to exercise restraint and do the right thing. At the same time I’m looking for ways to be productive, creative, and entertained with what I already have as we social distance and self quarantine. 

As an artist, I’m continually looking for ways to be innovative while limiting my carbon footprint. Not able to find the right size canvas/wood block I wanted, and not wanting to place an order that required a delivery, I looked to recycled items.

In January, I joined the ranks of the bottle-pickers and began scavenging my Brooklyn neighborhood for large pieces of of unblemished cardboard (flat screen TV boxes are perfect). This resulted in a never-ending, free supply of discarded cardboard and the discovery of a medium that, when cut into, adds a 3-D effect to my paintings.

Author’s painting: Nostrand Ave., Brooklyn. Oil and x-acto knife on cardboard. Covidd-19 series.
Author’s painting: Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn, NY. Oil and x-acto knife of recycled cardboard. Covid-19 series.

Covid-19 has brought the world to a screeching halt. If it has done anything, it has, perhaps, forced us to take a ” searching and fearless inventory of ourselves.” Or it should.

I’d like to think there are many ways we can make a difference. Acts of kindness, thinking of others, being resourceful and creative can spread exponentially too.

A NYC Pandemic Vignette

Posted on by connieottmann

Photo by Ahmed Zayan on Unsplash


Friday and the news is ever dire.

In one night, the death toll climbs to 100.

People respond with care. Many not so much.

Judging proves fruitless.

Taking in the sun and taking in the view. A car pulls up

an exchange is made.

Anxieties slip away like

so many droplets hitching a ride on an innocent breath.

Liquor stores are essential in a plagued economy

And my son texts,

People gotta stay medicated.

My Taking a "Gap Year" at 67 to Live in NYC Will Now Include Surviving a Pandemic.

Posted on by connieottmann

Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

Oh, the irony.

This past October, I answered a call to adventure and moved from Maine to NYC to experience the dizzying din of a city that never sleeps. Four months into it, all the enticements that drew me here have been shut down, and I’ve been put to bed without my supper. Along with the city’s other 8.5 million residents, I’ve been asked to stay home, avoid crowds, and practice self distancing.

I was, initially, peeved.

I am now working to suck it up, to surrender.

Up until a week ago, I’ve had a rather cavalier attitude about going out in the city. Having traveled by subway both ways with stops at Grand Central, I attended a Broadway show matinee, and the next day the blackout was announced. Now the only show in town is the real Theater of the Absurd we are living.

Shortly after, the mayor declared a state of emergency and banned large gatherings. But it wasn’t until I had a conversation with my 30 year-old son sitting on the stoop at his apartment that the seriousness of it hit me.

Not feeling well the night before, he and his girlfriend decided to self quarantine. After our initial no-touch greeting, he reassured me they were feeling much better. And then he looked directly into my eyes. Because there is no one whose opinion I value more, or whose gentle criticisms of me I intently listen to and take to heart, I knew what he was going to say was important: “Mom, you need to be more careful. I want you to be safe.”

Apparently, I’m not the only parent getting this kind advice. Later on Facebook, I read a post from a friend from Maine who asked if anyone else’s millennial son or daughter had sat them down and explained how serious the situation was. My friend’s daughter had contacted her from Brooklyn alerting her to what was potentially coming. I also heard from a sister in Maine whose son and daughter chided both of them about their plans to attend a play. Their father has suffered two heart attacks and currently has a stent in place.

Things are getting real.

We all need to be careful including young people who naturally feel invincible. There are those who avoid large public gatherings and work from home by day and avoid the customary night life, and others who throw caution to the wind and risk spreading this invisible infection and insist on going out. It was just a week ago that I walked home and looked across the street into the open door of a popular watering hole that was filled with young people. The business didn’t look to be running at half capacity allowing for safe distancing as suggested. Patrons didn’t seem to be taking the necessary cautions either.

That has since changed.

I can’t just blame this behavior on the young people who are a lower risk. I’m healthy, take no medications, and have no medical conditions. Until recently, I’ve displayed hubris taking more chances then I should even though people in my age group have been issued guidance by the federal government how to stay safe.

So I’ve decided to become more conscious and regularly monitor my attitude. I accept that this is my NYC experience, and I am grateful to be here near my son. I will take better care not only of myself but also my fellow man because we are all in this together.

When I was called to this adventure, I knew there were bound to be risks, uncertainties, and trials along the way. I had no idea the extent to which I’d be tested.

I will practice taking one day at a time. Because:

This was not what I had planned.

This is pretty absurd.

To quote Camus: “To embrace the absurd implies embracing all that the unreasonable world has to offer.”

The Spring/Break Art Show in NYC is a Riotous Affair of Small Galleries and Independent Curators Representing Unknown, Emerging, and Mid Career Artists. What a Blast!

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Jeremy Olson/ To Scale: friends and neighbors. Oil on Panel. I met the artist!

It’s the season of Art Shows in NYC right now, and the title Spring/Break certainly heralds a dizzying collection of art including installation, interactive, and video work from about 130 international curators. The show is housed in unused, unusual, and sometimes historic buildings in the city at no cost to exhibitors.

In its ninth year to NYC, the show is located on the 11th and 12th floors (formerly leased to Ralph Lauren, I was told) at the Atlantic Production Center, 625 Madison Avenue. This year’s theme is “In Excess.”

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Two of artist David Frye’s acrylic paintings.

Chatting it up with the curators and artists is the best part. The Spring/Break show is new to me, so I asked lots of questions. For instance, What is an independent curator?  I arrived at booth 1036 on the 10th floor and spoke to Mary Gagler who was representing artist David Frye and his “Golden Calf” acrylic paintings in sculptural frames (above). They had painted their small space in a dramatic red color to look like paneling.

She explained that independent curators might own a gallery, work for a gallery or non profit, or free lance. Curators (many of them were also artists showing their work) act as a kind of jack-of all-trades marketing reps.

Booth 1037 entitled Tableau Vivant, part of Max’s booth.
Max, an artist, in front of his circular sculpture at booth 1037.

Many exhibitors got quite elaborate with the design of their space. Curator Lauren Hirshfield recreated a small dining room to showcase her artist’s porcelain ceramics, but the pieces were simply glazed, and though beautiful, got lost in the presentation.

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These ceramic pieces got lost in the presentation!

Curator and artist Jeila Gueramian had just one day to install her huge, plush, crochet/ sculptural pieces that overflowed beyond her space into the elevator hallway. Fortunately, she has her daughter to help during the week.

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Close up of one of Jelia’s huge installations. Lots of crochet.

On my way up to the show in the elevator, a young woman exclaimed, “You gotta check out the artist known as Super Future Kid (Steffi Homa)!  I did. And entered a real gingerbread house comprised of 2500 pounds of salt and gallons of pastel paint replete with toad stools and a foot bridge over a stream of pink water and paintings of colorful, cartoonish creatures.

Entry of the artist Super Future Kid.
Inside the Gingerbread universe.

One of my favorite pieces was a huge ( 90 x 120 inches) installation entitled “Unfolding,” by artists Ori Carino and Lee Quinones.  It consisted of two layers of stretched silk with spray paint, airbrush, and acrylic paint. Illuminated from behind, it was stunning.

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“Unfolding” Spray paint, airbrush, acrylic paint on synthetic silk.

Many of the artists have sold work. Scooter LaForge’s beastly banquet table of hand glazed/fired commercial dinner plates with gold inlay were selling well at $500 a piece. Entitled, “Please Don’t Eat The Animals,” you were asked to “Gorge yourself on the excesses of humanity’s cruelty to animals.” I have vegan friends who would approve.

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Please Don’t Feed the Animals!

Before I realized it, I had already spent two and a half hours and never even left the 10th floor. I ran in to three new friends who had just arrived, and after a brief hello, made my way to the 11th floor to squeeze in a quick walk around as sensory overload had taken over, and I just couldn’t ingest another visual bite.

The show runs from March 3rd to the 9th.

(But I have to get in one more.)

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Krista Klingbeil uses a pastry bag to pipe in silica paste on the surfaces of her paintings.

Embark on a Hero’s Quest. It’s not Just for the Young.

Posted on by connieottmann

We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.  Follow your bliss, and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.   Joseph Campbell.

A trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the exhibition, The Last Knight: The Art, Armor,and Ambition of Maximilian I before it closed, happened to coincide with rereading a couple of inspiring books, The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers, and Do the Work, by Steven Pressfield. Together they inspire a call to action: create a new vision of the future, embark on a quest, slay the dragon of resistance to bring it to fruition.

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His horse couldn’t be lacking in sumptuous adornment. A similar Bard (body armor for war horses) was presented by Maximilian I to Henry VIII.

Campbell’s quote could apply to Maximilian I. Although he was the son of a Holy Roman Emperor, he got little kingly guidance at home. He realized his own “unique potentiality for experience” and created a vision of what constituted a great ruler. With little money, land, prestige, or political clout, he forged a new identity with a marriage to Marie of Burgundy, a full-on propaganda campaign, crafted armor befitting the gods, and dazzling jousting tournaments. In today’s lingo, he knew how to create a brand.

His alliances and military strategies earned him the title of one of the most powerful leaders in European history and probably the label “hero.” I imagine him, with the flick of his fingers, casting off the past and then plunging himself headlong into an uncertain future.

According to Campbell, most hero stories are about the young–finding themselves confronting the unknown in a place, a forest perhaps. The hero embarks on this journey and must leave dependency and immaturity behind and then find the passion and courage deep within to overcome many trials.  If she or he is strong enough, the end result and revelations learned along the way will bring the hero to a richer and mature new life, a new consciousness– a mythological death and a rebirth.

But a hero’s quest isn’t just for the young!

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Ceremonial Armor of Charles V, grandson of Maximilian I and future Emperor.  The cost of this armor would be equal to the price of a Manhattan townhouse in today’s market. Original photo

A hero’s journey is exactly what we need in the later stages of our lives. To look inward, To be reborn. To save ourselves.

When we’re older, past childbearing/ child rearing years, or in retirement, we can find ourselves suddenly lost too, wondering what it all means?  Our trials are different– lost youth, declining bodily functions, confronting mortality (technology!)–but no less difficult. Shouldn’t  we to go forth and participate in life with as much courage and vitality as we did when we were young?

I think so. We Boomers are leading the way.

Now that we’re living longer we have another chance to take this adventure. Maybe it’s finally taking a cross-country trip, committing to a healthy life style, writing that book, or starting that business venture. You don’t have to go far or put yourself in much danger. But you do have to get out of your comfort zone.

Mechanical Breastplate for the Joust of War. Date:1480-1500. Medium: Steel, copper alloy. Original photo
Mechanical Breastplate for the Variants of the Joust of War. Date: 1480-1500. Meduim: Steel, copper alloy. Original photo

Getting started and staying the course is the hard part.  In his book Do The Work, Steven Pressfield puts is this way:

On a field of the Self stand a knight and a dragon.  You are the knight. Resistance is the dragon.

Joust of War in Field Armor. Date: 1512-15. Gouache with gold and silver highlights over pen, pencil, and lead point on paper.
Joust of War. Date 1512-15. Gouache with gold and silver highlights over pen, pencil, and lead point on paper.

Resistance will probably be the greatest trial, and some of the “greatest hits” that elicit the dragon of resistance according to Pressfield are any creative art, any course or program designed to overcome a bad habit or addiction, education of any kind, any act that entails commitment of the heart. In essence, “any act that derives from our higher nature instead of our lower.”

Pressfield says we can use resistance as a compass.

Rule of thumb: “The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel towards pursuing it.”

Designed for a contest between two men with polaxes (long battle axes), swords, or daggers inside an inclosure. This was the most frightening of all contests. There were no rules.Talk about trials!
Foot Combat Armor of Maximilian I.

Next to resistance, Pressfield, goes on to say, “…rational thought is the soul’s worst enemy. “Bad things happen when we employ rational thought, because rational thought comes from the ego.” Rational thought or the ego will find a multitude of reasons why this adventure is a bad idea. It wants to play it safe, quell those fears that arise. What’s the solution?

Instead, we want to work from the Self, that is, from instinct and intuition, from the unconscious.

Working from the self requires spending some quiet time away from social media, texting, anything that constantly grabs our attention.  Long walks, keeping a journal, enjoying nature, prayer/meditation help to cultivate intuition and shed light on the unconscious. These are simple undertakings, yet they require the most effort. But what a thrill it will be to live a second self– a new version of you.

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Steel Gloves–Gauntlets– of Maximilian I.  These give new meaning to the expression: Throwing down the Gauntlet. Original photo

Joseph Campbell coined the phrase follow your bliss.  He affirmed living life as an adventure.

What each must seek in his life never was on land or sea. It is something out of his own unique potentiality for experience, something that never has been and never could have been experienced by anyone else.

So, throw down the gauntlet.

And with your higher self, pick it up.

Embrace the challenge.

NYC Artist Poogy (Briggs) Bjerklie, a Hallowell, Maine Native, has a One-Woman Show at the Sears Peyton Gallery, New York, NY.

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New York City is still a mecca for artists the world over, and the neighborhood of Chelsea, home to hundreds of galleries, is often hailed as one of the city’s most important and influential art districts.

One of the many exciting things about living here is being exposed to all this stimulating creativity and attending art openings.  What’s even more exciting is when the one-woman show at the Sears Peyton Gallery, in Chelsea, belongs to a childhood friend who grew up in Hallowell, Maine, and graduated from the Maine College of Art.

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Early Morning, oil on panel 20x 20 inches.

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Between the Trees, oil on panel, 27×27 inches.

Along with a festive and colorful crowd, I was able to celebrate, Poogy Bjerklie, The In-Between, her second exhibition with the gallery.  Described as “…landscape paintings, rendered both intimate and anonymous, imagined and reimagined, on dreamy, luscious surfaces,” I would add that her work has an old world, other worldly quality, which draws you in to reflect on happy childhood memories playing outdoors hoping for talking animals and fairy sightings. Her paintings evoke a response.

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Poogy and husband, John opening night..

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An art patron at the opening. Love the coat.

Poogy’s story is interesting.  After graduating from Maine College of Art, where she met her husband, John, she somewhat reluctantly agreed to move to Brooklyn.  Back in the 90’s, they rented a huge apartment that included studio space in what was then an AIR (Artist in Residence) building, which housed about 13 other artists.

At the time, Poogy was creating hand-painted clothing in addition to oil paintings.  It was common back then for landlords to ask tenants to hold open studio weekends to showcase their art. Many artists became suspicious because more and more, landlords saw this as an opportunity for real estate developers to have easy access to view the entire building and then make an offer on the property. This wasn’t the case with her landlord.

Not wanting people traipsing through her space, she reluctantly agreed, and, instead, built a temporary wall about four feet into her studio that prevented the public not only passage into her work area but also her living space. She painted and distressed the wall a rich bronze color that captured the light and beautifully enhanced seven small paintings.

Her display caught the eye of one woman in particular during the event.  After admiring Poogy’s work, she bought one painting and announced, “I’m scheduling a one person show of your work in October.” This patron happened to represent the Phatory, an East Village art gallery, still open today, specializing in contemporary art.

Every painting sold.

The rest is history.

In 2018, The Maine Museum of Art located in Bangor, part of the University of Maine, Orono, selected Poogy to exhibit her work entitled, Poogy Bjerklie, Nowhere in Particular, at one of its five separate exhibition spaces. The Museum had found her through the Sears Peyton Gallery and had been looking at her work over the years. Oddly enough, they didn’t realize at the time she was a Maine native.

Her work was displayed at the museum from January 12–May 5, 2018.  Typically, artists don’t usually sell paintings at museum shows, but as luck, or should I say, talent would have it, Poogy sold four paintings to one collector.

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Distant Mountains, oil on paper mounted on wood 11 1/4 x 11 1/4.

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Proud moment with a dear friend at her solo show.

While New York City (Queens to be exact) continues to be her primary residence, she still owns seasonal lake property in Maine where she draws inspiration from its natural beauty like so many artists before her. In fact most, if not all, her pieces in this current show were done in Maine this summer.

What makes this a particularly significant event for Poogy is that the year 2020 is proving to be an exciting time for women in the arts as museums everywhere are focusing requisitions and programming on long, underappreciated female artists.The Baltimore Museum of Art has even dedicated all its 2020 programs and exhibitions to women. There couldn’t be a better time to be recognized with a solo show.

Her journey from small town Maine to New York City and having gained entree into its high velocity art scene is notable. Surrounded by lush and graceful paintings representing years of hard work and well honed talent was profound. The vitality and enthusiasm in the room opening night was palpable.

It is inspiring to see an artist still opening her heart–still following her bliss.

Why You Should Ride the NYC Subway. In a world of growing divisions, it has taught me, instead, to see our similarities and shared humanity.

Posted on by connieottmann

I’m not Ubering around here. 

What I am doing is trying to master NYC mass transit. Like Luke Skywalker, introduced to the ways of the Jedi, I’ve got it in my head this self imposed, home schooled education will earn me my way to the title of Resident New Yorker.

Each trip is a revelation about living here… and a revelation about my 66 year-young- self. I’ve been venturing out of my Brooklyn neighborhood to other locations in Manhattan on a regular basis, sometimes during the comfort of daylight other times under the cover of darkness and long shadows late at night (well, 11:00PM is late for me).

Every ride on the subway is akin to finding yourself suddenly cast in some kind of bizarre Best Short Film.

The NYC subway car is a microcosm of the world young and old, rich and poor, fresh and scrubbed, ripe and unwashed, from far and away, born and raised, unpretentious, ultra glamorous, inconspicuous, and ostentatious, blowzy, mangy, kind, and surly.   Thrown together hurly-burly.

Often times, uncomfortably, up close and personal.

On an 8:00AM rush hour car, I find myself crammed like cattle nose to cheek, desperately seeking not only something solid to grip but also a place to rest my eyes. For some insane reason, people do not, “Stand clear of closing doors,” and move to the center of the car where lucky patrons enjoy ample room.  NOooo.  Everyone prefers to keep their back-packs on and inflict pain on each other squeezing in near the exits. And people put up with it! Occasionally the herd isn’t so docile, and an angry bellow, “MOVE!” causes a seismic shift.

It pays to have both a sense of humor and sense of the ridiculous. I choose viewing this situation through a playful lens. It’s fascinating. Each ride unique.

And then it’s not so amusing. Some poor, afflicted creature displaying an I’m-off-my-meds-I’m-high behavior sends a slight ripple of unease through the air. I witness a young guy in army green, ear phones plugged in, pacing back and forth the entire length of the car, weaving around the poles, arms flailing playing air guitar. We ride four stops this way until other passengers board and fill the space.

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There’s often good entertainment while catching a connecting train.

Sometimes you get a double feature. A hopeful singer looking to raise money for recording fees bursts into song with finesse and surprising range. Time stands still, and for a few moments there’s a unified field of good will, dollars collected. Panhandlers of every design, too, share this captive audience. This one, a mountain of a man, bearded with long dark hair, wearing a DIY muumuu from what appears to be a bed sheet. He eventually shuffles along.

But wait….amazingly, chivalry is alive and well. Standing in a crowded train, I feel a slight tug on my coat sleeve. As I look down into the face of an earnest young man, he silently gestures to me to take his seat.  On the one hand, I groan inwardly thinking, do I look that old? But on the other hand, I think, how can I refuse such a courtly gesture? It’s obvious he loves his Momma, and she’d be proud of this outward show of manners.

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The Q train at East 72nd Street, Manhattan. So this is how the other half lives.

These subway, mini-adventures have made me realize that we sacrifice a lot of living today for the comforts of convenience. Our lives have become so busy and outwardly projected, heads down, eyes to phones, that we no longer really see each other and lose those fleeting, often joyous moments of connection with total strangers reminding us that in the end, we’re all just trying to make it through the night.

Of course, at some point, I’ll dial up an Uber.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy commiserating and communing on the subway with my “Human Family.”  Maya Angelou expressed it poignantly in her like-named poem:

I note the obvious difference

between each sort and type,

but we are more alike my friends,

than we are  unalike.

In order to follow your Heart, you have to roll with the punches AND with the bed springs when pursuing a New Adventure.

Posted on by connieottmann

As we get older, we tend to like coming home and sleeping in the security of our own, comfy cocoons.  I figure in the last five weeks, I’ve had to sleep in ten strange beds, and variations of beds, (alone) in a variety of different places.  No easy feat for a boomer since getting enough shut eye is essential to our well being. And let’s face it. A good night’s sleep is harder to get than… a seat on the G train at rush hour. Like the princess and the pea, I’ve had to stay honest and true to myself by suffering some minor inconveniences like this.

But stepping out of my comfort zone is a constant requirement, and everything is just more strenuous here.  For example, moving into my place took a Herculean effort.  I had to GPS it from Irvington to Brooklyn in gridlock, hope for a place to park without parking restrictions close to my building, and then make eight (I counted) trips that consisted of :  a) unloading an item; b) locking my car; c) carrying heavy item about 200 feet; d) use other set of keys to unlock outside door; e) cart my heavy bag/ plastic tub up two flights of stairs; e) unlock apartment door; f) drop the stuff off; g) lock the door; h) head back down to the car;  i) unlock the car;  j) …w,x,y,z; REPEAT.   Like Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill, I have my Camu moments of thinking this undertaking is absurd, but they evaporate and the excitement returns.

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Heading home from the G train.

Still… unconscious fears lurk below the surface.

During my first week in the apartment, on the night of the full moon, (December 12th at 12:00PM) I had a vivid dream of being pursued by a crazed and unruly rabble, fueled on alcohol, since I had the distinct feeling that all sense of reason was gone.  And what really ratcheted things up was that everyone was naked. It reminded me of a funeral march of Jacques during the French Revolution, in a scene from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities that suddenly turns in to a bloodthirsty, murderous mob.

Chased from one place to another, I was trying to out run them. But I was getting more and more tired, and there were fewer and fewer places to hide.  Although quite terrifying, I managed to out maneuver them each time, and in my gut, I felt I was going to be OK.  But the question remained: How long was I able to keep this up?

In trying to analyze this, I figured it was about raw, animal fear. Was I able to survive in this jungle of a city?  After all, I am kinda high on the food chain as vulnerable, older  prey. Will I be taken down, or can I keep up–out run its perils and survive?  I have to keep my wits about me and stay present.

And yet, it’s all part of the adventure. The good and the bad. Time slows down when you  find yourself in a new environment, and you’re much more present. Meditating helps foster this too.

The young woman I’m subleasing from has left a pretty good library of books.  I’ve just finished Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which explores the author’s grief following the sudden death of her husband of forty years.  It begins with these lines:

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

Sobering to read at our age as we tend to bump up against death more and more in the guise of friends and family members dying too soon, and we see, too, our own mortality reflected in death’s face.

And then, interestingly enough, I followed up with The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers.  It’s a wonderful discussion of mythology and what myths can tell us about our own lives. When I came upon this passage, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had a very visceral response:

People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life.  I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking.  I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances within our own inner most being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.

Enjoying the first night in my new home, I was sitting quietly waiting for my roommate to come home.  Somewhat intoxicated with a feeling of bliss (and the pungent smell of pot that often wafts through the building) I suddenly heard from somewhere above the vibrato trills of a beautiful soprano voice practicing scales.

WHOA….

I gotta admit. I’m feeling the rapture from time to time.

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Ginger lives happily at Jerannie Deli Grocery on the corner of Clifton Place and Nostrand Ave.

Brooklyn is home to a lot of young, hip Millennials. Would Ageism be a factor in my search for a room to rent? Turned out… it wasn’t.

Posted on by connieottmann

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Fresh greens for the holidays.

On a recent visit from Irvington to Brooklyn, my brother took my sister aside, and, out of ear shot from me, told her with pity saturating his voice that I wasn’t likely to find a room to rent.  My prospects were probably nil.  Early on I had contacted a high school friend who has been living in Brooklyn since college and told her I was looking for a place.  Her response was something to the effect that people looking for rooms were young people.

I have to admit it did seem daunting.  Brooklyn has gentrified and is gentrifying still, drawing young professionals from Manhattan to its more friendly, quaint neighborhoods.  On numerous times in the past, while out to dinner with my son, I’ve looked around at a sea of Forever 21- fresh faces and wondered if I could blend in without having, what I perceived to be an arrow pointing down at my head reading, “Mom’s in town visiting.”

With some trepidation, I stuck my big toe in to the Roomi app and the Listing Project website, looked around, and then dove in head first and fired off some emails.

Listing Project was recommended to me by a friend’s daughter who lives in Brooklyn.  It’s a no fee, curated (no brokers or third party services) weekly email that caters to artists and other creative (that word again) types searching for everything from studio space to sublets and long term rentals.  The lister posts pictures, price, location, particulars, and info about him or herself.  On average, I found ages to be between 28 and 40.  Oh dear.

Two postings looked promising–the first advertised two professional women in their 30s looking for someone respectful, neat, who wanted a safe haven to come home to.  The other caught my eye–two gay comedians.  Maybe they’d be more forgiving?  My moving in might provide them with some good material for future acts:  The Golden Girl(s) meets Will & Grace?

Zilp zip, nada!

I soldiered on.

No response.

I tried the Roomi app and finally heard from a woman who appeared to be in her 50s.  The location was perfect but upon arriving the building looked like a fire trap.  I followed Maria (names have been changed to protect the innocent) down a very narrow hallway hotter than Hades reeking of cat pee, to a small room still overflowing with the 20- something- tenant’s eerily childish belongings.  Pictures are deceiving. My other roommate would be a young man who just immigrated from South America.  I liked Maria very much.  She had come from Brazil fifteen years ago and was supporting a mother with Alzheimer’s back home. But this is what you get for $1200. a month?!

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I enjoyed meeting Maria, but I couldn’t see myself living here.

I did hear from a woman my age who contacted me about a room, but she mentioned it was way out in City Island and, “You’d never know you were in NYC.”  Isn’t that the whole point?  It was nice to be contacted though.

I persevered, dispelled negative thoughts when they arose, and meditated on exactly what I wanted to manifest.

Next, I heard back from a Listing Project prospect, a psychoanalyst and English Lit professor at CUNY, who was “open to all.”  I had no idea how old the person was or what gender, but on a cold windy evening, I was warmly greeted by a young, good -looking guy in a white button down shirt and khakis–early 30s maybe–originally from Vermont. When I stated that I was surprised he answered my email (I could hear my son scolding me, “Stop saying that!”), Monroe replied, “Why?  I think what you’re doing is cool.”  He told me his mom was relocating to Ireland, and that her fiance was from Camden, Maine. The place wasn’t furnished and he wanted me to split a broker’s fee, so it didn’t work out.  But, WOW, I was encouraged. I recall Sally Field’s Oscar win response, “You like me. You really like me!

It was pretty nice, but located in the basement of the building with zero phone reception!
Unfurnished bedroom :/

Shortly after I heard back from three more young listers who were interested. I met Jen and Jeremy a couple in their 30s who advertised, “We love green spaces, outdoor activities, radical ideas, and non violent communication. Communal living a plus.” O.k.a.y….? Maybe they’re communists?

He actually was a former professional cyclist who now manages a bike shop in Manhattan, and she works in early childhood art education and is studying herbology. Jen’s mom was visiting from Texas when I showed up. Did I detect a smirk? I wondered what she thought of me as a possible roommate.  Again, just the sweetest people, but the place was tiny and living with a couple might be a tad too close.  Besides, the next morning I was meeting a young woman to see what might be the perfect place.

I had arranged to meet Kim at 11:00 at her apartment only two blocks from my son and brother’s place.  Kim is a 32 year- old freelance art director “who likes to illustrate and make puppets on the side” and shares an apartment with only one other roommate and was subleasing her furnished bedroom AND WORKROOM/STUDIO for nine months to attend to a family matter back home in Texas.  We had, what I felt was an instant rapport, the place was perfect and in my price range, utilities included.  Her roommate was also 32, an archivist for a non profit and described as very laid back and considerate.  Since she wasn’t around, we could FaceTime later if I was chosen. Kim was bombarded with emails to see the place, and she would make a decision the next day.  I left a little hopeful...something just felt right. 

Open kitchen and livingroom wih high ceilings!
My furnished bedroom with full mattress.
A studio!!!

On pins and needles the following day, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer and texted Kim late in the afternoon.  When she texted back and asked if I minded if some tenants in the building smoked pot (hell no), I knew I had the place!

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My building in Bed Stuy.

And so it goes.

I believe I really did manifest the perfect situation–one roommate and studio space to boot! Unheard of in these parts.

What I find most amazing is how welcoming and open minded these young people are.  This experience reinforces that old thinking based on experiences from the past begets the same old future.  The science of neuroplasticity says that the nervous system has the capacity to create new neural pathways and connections–we can retrain our brains and thinking –to create a vision of the future we want.  Maybe ageism is something we perpetuate?

Recently that same Brooklyn brother took me aside at another gathering and stated that he secretly didn’t think I was going to be able to make the big move. He told me that he was really impressed I had made it happen.

I continue to be blown away.  I am incredibly happy.  What can I manifest next?