Sweet Inspiration...Mari Lou and Jo

MLLE, New Mexico, 1992

My daughter-in-law, Mari Lou Laso-Elders, died a year ago this morning. I'll be thinking about her all day. And likely all this next month, since she so loved looking forward to Halloween. Orange was her favorite color, and she loved pumpkins.

Mari Lou's young adult novel, Otherwise Known as Possum, will be published by Scholastic Press and available February 28. It can be pre-ordered now. https://www.amazon.com/Otherwise-Known-Possum-Maria-Laso/dp/0545927951

Here's a synopsis: Possum Porter has had it with change. First she lost Mama, leaving a hole nothing can fill. And now, instead of trying to return to some kind of normal, Daddy's sending Possum to school. A real school, where you have to wear SHOES. Where some Yankee teacher will try to erase all the useful things Mama taught Possum during their lessons at home.

So Possum comes up with a plan. If she can prove that she already knows everything worth knowing, Daddy will let her quit school and stay where she belongs. She won't have to deal with snooty classmates, or worry about tarnishing Mama's memory.

But unfortunately, Possum doesn't shoot to the top of the class like she expected. Even worse, the unmarried Yankee teacher seems to have her eyes on someone . . . Possum's Daddy. With time running out, Possum decides to do something drastic to get away from school-and get Daddy out of Ms. Arthington's clutches-or risk losing everything that's keeping her broken heart glued together.

Amazon includes this author's note: A former journalist, Maria D. Laso was a beloved creative writing teacher in Orange County, CA, where she helped people from teens to senior citizens find their voices. She completed her debut novel, Otherwise Known as Possum, shortly before her death in 2015.

When I returned to Southern California in late 2014, I began to attend Mari Lou's Poets and Dreamers writing class, the Tuesday Morning Group. That group had outgrown its original home at the Orange Senior Center, graduating to a conference room at Our Saviour's Lutheran Church. Sometimes I'd substitute for her when Mari Lou was too ill to prepare an assignment for the group. Mostly, though, I looked forward to my role of student,

Mari Lou, Orange Senior Center, 2010

welcoming the opportunity to experiment with genres I'd previously shunned, including poetry and mysteries.

Once Mari Lou asked me where I'd found the inspiration to become a writer.  Here's my answer.

I Owe It All to Jo

“The creative mind plays with the objects it loves.” –Carl Jung

As a child I’d often curl up on the sofa and watch Grandma create pretty dresses for me on her treadle sewing machine. All through elementary school I’d dream of the day when I’d be creating my own wardrobe. I’d clip drawings of countless gowns from her dog-eared Sears and Roebuck catalog, and then flip through its pages in search of matching accessories. I’d imagine designing an outfit for my high school prom. Maybe even my own wedding gown.

Then, when I got to junior high, I nearly flunked my seventh grade sewing class. I couldn’t sew a straight seam, no matter how hard I tried. Stunned, I realized I’d never be clever with a needle like Grandma. I lacked whatever skill that pursuit seemed to require.

Some dreams, though, die hard. My dreams had always involved succeeding at something that I loved doing. I’d love sewing, just like Grandma. But struggling with unraveling crooked seams began to feel like work, not play. When the school year concluded, I decided I’d spend my summer seeking another endeavor…and another mentor.

Soon, after reading a book about Anna Pavlova, I began to dream anew. I longed for a tutu and ballet slippers. After I stumbled through half a dozen three lessons, I realized I couldn’t hold an arabesque without toppling over. Next I raced through a book about women athletes, and stared, fascinated, at a photo of Gertrude Ederle, the first woman to swim the English Channel. It took nearly the entire summer for me to accept that if I couldn’t manage ten laps across the Harvard playground pool without becoming winded, I’d never churn my way across the English Channel. It didn’t matter how cute I thought I’d look in swim goggles. It wasn’t going to happen.

So…if I couldn’t be like Anna Pavlova or Gertrude Ederle, not to mention my own grandmother, who could I emulate? Where could I find someone to model my life on? Then, one afternoon as I reread my favorite book, Little Women, it became clear. I caught my breath when read Jo March’s ringing affirmation in Chapter 14. She’d just sent off some stories to a potential publisher.

 "There,” she proclaimed, “I've done my best! If this won't suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better."

I smiled. Maybe a role model didn’t have to be an actual living person. Maybe a fictional character would do. I certainly could identify with Jo’s initial hesitation and subsequent bravery. I, too, had attempted to write stories, but aside from a letter on the children’s page of the Portland Oregonian, I’d never been published.

First published 1869

But it might not be too late, I decided. When school began again in September, I asked my counselor if I could take journalism as an elective. I’d always enjoyed writing essays in my English classes. Maybe I could become a reporter for the school paper, The Naturalist.

This time I met with success. I appeared to have the aptitude to pair with the attitude. I particularly relished taking my turn at writing the continuing column, “Silhouettes.” These were profiles of teachers and student leaders. I’d try to flesh my stories out, to make my subjects appear to dazzle, like the characters Jo and her sisters admired in Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers. If my teacher or fellow students criticized my stories, Jo’s words would echo in my mind…”If this won’t suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better.”

I never had to wait long. If I reread my own work a few days later with a critical eye, I’d almost always be able to do better. That’s when I realized that the secret to good writing, as Jo knew, lay in rewriting.

In high school and college I continued to write, never failing to delight in playing with words…like Jo. When I transferred from a community college to a state university, somebody scribbled in the upper right hand corner of my transcript in a space for comments, “Said to be creative.”

Over the years I’ve wondered who it was that wrote that cryptic comment. It’s always been a mystery. Nobody ever used that word to my face, not a teacher or a counselor. I wonder if that anonymous annotator realized that all I’d ever wanted to do was to succeed at something I loved, while I played. Like Jo, I’m convinced that writing involves play, playing with ideas, playing with words, playing until I can play better, arranging...and then rearranging.

Unlike Jo, I’ve never written a play or even a novel. I’ve stuck to shorter pieces, essays, commentary, reviews, and true stories for anthologies. Writing remained my lifetime avocation, my source of joy, with a blank page always my playground.

When friends inquire about “writer’s block,” I claim I’ve never really encountered it. Jo’s spirit always remains with me…she never thought of writing as work, as something to suffer through, as something to be endured. Oh, no! For her it was always play.

Jo never doubted her ability. She never hesitated to retreat to her attic, assemble her words, and enjoy herself. She remains my inspiration. Her playful spirit never deserts me.

So early on I’d been forced to set aside the dreams of sewing my own prom dress, dancing in the chorus of Swan Lake, and coating myself with oil to cross the English Channel. Nonetheless, I’d never allowed defeat to discourage me from trying something else. Through trial and error, I’d finally found where my talents lay…in persistently playing with words.

Oh, sure, there have been times when I’m trying to write a story and the patterns fail to form, or the message remains elusive, or I begin to feel too frazzled to dazzle. When it doesn’t feel like play, I put the piece away. I owe myself a break. I take that tip from Jo. I wait until I can do better. It’s the best advice I ever came across.

It’s never a very long wait. 

RIP, Mari Lou...you, too, always were an inspiration.

Steve and Mari Lou, c. 2000

 

What Vexed Vincent?

  Hospital at Saint-Rémy, 1889

In the 1980s I visited the Jeu du Paume museum in the Tuileries Gardens in Paris and stood transfixed on the top floor, staring at half a dozen Van Goghs, including "Starry Night." Then in 2012 I visited Philadelphia, and for the first time walked up those fabled steps of its Museum of Art to see a fantastic exhibit of his paintings on loan from Amsterdam. A couple of weeks ago I saw a few more for the first time, right here, at San Marino's Huntington Library.

Starry Night, 1889, MOMA

When I first saw "Starry Night," I didn't know it depicted the view from the east-facing window of Van Gogh's asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, just before sunrise. Now that I'm more familiar with his life, each time I see more of his work, I wonder how he kept focused enough to produce such an enormous number of radiant works while struggling with mental illness. The Van Gogh Museum attempts to address that question on its website: https://www.vangoghmuseum.com/en/stories/on-the-verge-of-insanity#0

Modern psychiatrists debate what really troubled this brilliant artist. One of the most detailed discussions can be found in the American Journal of Psychiatry article, "The Illness of Vincent Van Gogh." http://ajp.psychiatryonline.org/doi/10.1176/appi.ajp.159.4.519\

Here's an excerpt: The illness of van Gogh has perplexed 20th-century physicians, as is evident from the nearly 30 different diagnoses that have been offered, from lead poisoning or Ménière’s disease to a wide variety of psychiatric disorders. Many writers have acknowledged the epilepsy but considered the psychiatric disorder an independent mental illness. Monroe (7, 8) recognized the unique episodicity of van Gogh’s mental changes, the role of absinthe in his illness, and an underlying epileptoid limbic dysfunction that was associated with his creativity but also, if overly intense, would render him ill. Earlier, in an exceptionally well-documented study, Gastaut (1) reasoned that the artist’s psychiatric changes were based on temporal lobe epilepsy produced by the use of absinthe in the presence of an early limbic lesion.

Here's Vincent, in his own words, writing to his brother, Theo, from the hospital in Arles on January 28, 1889: "I well knew that one could break one’s arms and legs before, and that then afterwards that could get better but I didn’t know that one could break one’s brain and that afterwards that got better too."

Reading his words nearly breaks my heart...what bravery in the face of monstrous troubles.

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July 16, 2016 - Jan 02, 2017 Huntington Art Gallery

Van Gogh & Friends: Masterpieces of Impressionism and Post-Impressionism from the Hammer Museum

Henry Huntington and Armand Hammer never met each other, but the two businessmen had at least one thing in common: they both established great art collections that form the core of major museums in Los Angeles. In an exciting “meet-up” of sorts, 15 important works from the Hammer Museum take up temporary residence at The Huntington, offering visitors the unprecedented opportunity to enjoy masterpieces from both collections in one place.  The exhibition contains three haunting works by Vincent van Gogh, including Hospital at Saint-Rémy (1889) and The Sower (ca.1888), as well as Claude Monet’s View of Bordighera (1884), Alfred Sisley’s Timber Yard at Saint-Mammès (1880), and Camille Pissarro’s Boulevard Montmartre, Mardi Gras (1897). Also included are such startling images of modern life and the fin de siècle avant-garde as Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s Study for “In the Salon on the Rue des Moulins” (1894), Paul Cezanne’s Boy Resting (ca. 1887), and Paul Gauguin’s Bonjour Monsieur Gauguin (1889). Gustave Moreau’s theatrical Salome Dancing before Herod (1876), a seminal work of French Symbolist painting, joins its compatriots.

The Rectory Garden in Nuenen in the Snow, January 1885