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"Queen of Working Mothers," oil on canvas, Maureen Foley, 2010
I no longer live in Louisiana. Strange but true. And like so many other times in my life, just before I left there was a sudden burst of creative energy that fizzled into a lull once I completed the move back to California.

What do I mean? Well,  during the last two weeks of my Louisiana adventure, I modeled my wearable art piece "Sadness Jacket" at the Old Governor's Mansion in the 2011 Uncommon Threads Wearable Art juried show in Baton Rouge. My writing was accepted in Artichoke Haircut and Spittoon. I participated in a final poetry reading with the women in my Milk & Honey Writing Workshop at the Arts Council in Baton Rouge. And, I sold a painting to a fabulous new friend, artist Tina, and she is kindly helping me show my work on the East Coast the 70 Main Coffeehouse and Art Gallery. I felt dizzy and en fuego, like a whirling dervish of creative fire.

Jump to a stalled car in the desert, or me, now, my feet are now firmly on the ground and my face turned toward the joyous and infinite task of generating work. I have unpacked the paintings I produced in Louisiana, like the Queen of Working Mothers, and it is strange to know that my time there is over. From a hundred miles per hour, my creative engagement has slowed to the pace of flower sprouting its first tentative leaf up from the moist soil.

Still, the life here on the avocado ranch reminds me that there is always abundance: more weeds, more gophers, more leaves falling. Shows, workshops, sales, publications will all return, in time. I've set up a single workshop in October and have leads for a class in winter 2013. Slowly, a season changes. The creative life is full of cycles and patterns. Our job is to make sure the soil is ready for the rain.
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           "Rua and Magnolia Flower"             Bird detail on "Train"                                     "Chupakarma" mask

What is it about spring and creativity? There's nothing like the warming weather and blooming tulip trees, after weeks of bundled fingers and frosted geraniums, to draw out my inventive play. And this week, after a thrilling break in the cool temps, I've been taking cues from all things twitching, moving and flying in my work.

Actually, my animal-obsession started last fall, when Britton Estep and I decided to enter the Uncommon Threads Wearable Art Show with its 2009 Crytozoology theme. We produced "Chupakarma," a sculpture/costume, and felt elated when it was chosen. In December, a model paraded down a catwalk wearing our beastie.

Well, that wasn't the end for the terrifyingly cute animal. Inspired by Mardi Gras, I produced four more masks (with Maia Elgin) and flaunted our invented species in the French Quarter for Fat Tuesday. Amazingly, no one figured out our creatures indigenous origins, but strangers were fascinated by the cardboard fangs and bulging eyes. More than a few photographs were made of the small pack of Chupakarmas ten days ago, before the Lenten seriousness descended.

Now, birds are on my mind. My old elongated dove motif appeared in a painting, surrounded by bottles, words and bright colors. And, now in two paintings, our dog, Rua (a red cattle dog) glares out from the paintings, with the same plaintive glare she gives me when she wants to escape our house and chase squirrels.

What animals are occupying your waking hours? Take a moment to sketch them, describe their calls or follow them into unknown alleys. Spring is the perfect moment to return to our primal selves and screech the body ecclectic.
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In the Garden 09/03/2009
 

       My recycled bin container garden.                                    Carrot, herb, bean sprouts.



Lately, I've found myself outside in the garden. But don't get any grandiose ideas. By garden, I mean the bathtub-sized patch of overgrown dirt that separates my Southern porch from the sidewalk. I keep compulsively bending over the two rectangular container gardens that I planted, every time I take the dog outside for a walk or leave for work.

The container gardens are planted in two leftover recycling bins. (Baton Rouge changed from the green boxes to large rolling cans.) Reduce, re-use, recycle and grow, right? I'd been dreaming of planting a container garden for months, but was waiting for the right moment. I found it three weeks ago. On an epic trip to the hardware store, I bought tons of seeds and organic soil, but I was stumped when it came time to purchase a box or planter or pot.

A terra cotta pot (to match the rest on my porch) was too heavy. A galvanized beer tub felt too industrial. I spotted a red, flexible rubber tote box, but it seemed too bright, too modern. Then I remembered the green bins. And my Martha Stewart epiphany arrived; I needed burlap.

At home, I rinsed off the crusty, green boxes and shrouded them in burlap (to hide the bright Baton Rouge Recycling logo.) Then, I dumped in the dirt, carefully buried the seeds and said a quick prayer to the Goddess of Growth.

Isn't she a great one, that Goddess of Growth? She's like Ganesh in a pair of overalls, holding a spade and hoe. She shows up when she wants to and always makes a scene, that one. Like the uninvited party guest who arrives with a make-your-own Mojito kit and stories of pirates on distant shores. You can't exactly ask her to leave. But when she stays, you know things will never be the same.

Which brings me back to my teeny greenspace. Maybe that explains all the time spent, staring into the two by three cubic feet of growing sprouts. Perhaps, I'm trying to invoke some serious moments of change, one tiny, unrolling leaf at a time. Or maybe it's a fundamental connection to the creative source I'm looking for. Whatever the case, I'm a woman possessed. A sprout watcher.

So, when you think of me, imagine me out there. Bent over the boxes, surrounded by an audience of technicolor geckos and fire ants. We're all waiting. We're looking for signs.

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             "Then one day Joe fell in love with a girl they called Maureen                       She came down from Opelousas to be crowned the Crawfish Queen"
                                         -Johnnie Allan, from "South to Louisiana"

This is my first Mardi Gras season in Baton Rouge and it seems I've found my people. What I mean is that creativity thrives here. Or maybe it's me. Living here, I have an abundance of time away from a regular job and I live in close proximity to other artistic souls.

Yesterday, I practiced with a New Orleans-inspired band I've joined. I play trumpet (and sing a little). But I knew my bandmates were kindred spirits when one of them suggested we wear gold turbans with pink feathers while we play before the Mardi Gras parade, and everyone loved the idea. People in the band live nearby, and most of us walk to the house where we play.

This is just another day in my neighborhood. I live in Spanishtown, a strange, bohemian, down-and-out, up-and-coming, funky, hipster ghetto. Shotgun shacks stand propped next to looming Victorian mansions. Weeds share equal space with landscaped Louisiana natives and swamp-blooming exotics. Last year's Mardi Gras beads and Spanish moss dangle from the live oaks.

There is a strange feline obsession here. Feral neighborhood cats rule the streets.There was even a curious lost cat sign up, a few weeks ago, that offered an apologia. It said, basically, that anyone can keep the lost cat as long as it give it a good home.

After Hurricane Gustav, last fall, we gossiped on porches and side-stepped fallen trees. We shared defrosted lentil soup and played Trivial Pursuit by candlelight. While we made the best of it, the hurricane really destroyed our neighborhood, ripping up trees and sidewalks and causing floods and even a fire. So, I'll happily exchange fall for winter here.

In Spanishtown, winter is the coolest month. Epiphany marks the official kick-off to the Mardi Gras season and the King Cakes start piling up at the grocery store. I can't decide if I like the Calandro's chocolate coconut or the Whole Foods cream cheese raspberry better.

But while I love King Cake, it's feeding my creativity that I enjoy even more. That's why the Spanishtown Ball rocked. We shopped at thrift stores, searched the craft store and raided the beauty supply emporium, in search of all things pink and vampiric. We were victorious, decked out for the evening in rose-colored, goth splendor.

And while there is a Spanishtown Queen, we do not have a Crawfish Queen. I heard Johnnie Allan's Song "South to Louisiana" last week on the National Public Radio show American Routes. I loved it so much that I downloaded it. Not only is the sound great, but the heroine is named "Maureen." For whatever reason, my name is not a pop favorite, so Allan's song made my day. It's the only time I've ever heard my name crooned on the radio.

So, even though I'm not actually the Crawfish Queen, my radio persona lives on, wearing her red velvet gown and rhinestone crown, her hands raw from shucking shellfish and infused with the scent of crab boil and lemon. I've included the image of a real Crawfish Queen from the Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival below. I'm so jealous. The only solution? My next painting already has a title: "Self-Portrait with Crawfish."



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Experience Joy 01/11/2009
 

    Creativity is a subversive, revolutionary act. Start now. Make your own reality, mark by mark, line by line. I watch my students struggle against the void, against the nullifying, deafening, dulling emptiness of mass culture. They are constantly told what to think and feel. The increase in information has, ironically, made it harder to be original. Call it the curse of the FaceTube Generation.
    So, when I ask them to speak their own truth, they stumble. What is stopping them?
    Fear, of course. They don't want to look stupid. But it's never that simple.
    What is stopping you?
    Time, you say. Or inspiration. My guess is that you might be waiting for permission, without realizing it. What if you spent five minutes today drawing or doodling, writing or singing? Would it hurt anything?
    Give yourself permission to experience joy.
   

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