An Artists' Life

The everyday life of me, an aging NH artist. I live in the woods at the top of a mountain, which was a dream when I was younger, and now is a lonely reality, hard to walk these steep hills, and few people to chat with along the way. So I grow more introspective and have begun to paint again everyday. I spend my days with Maxx and LuLu, two very interesting dogs, and my husband Stevie.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Regarding The Turker Thing


An Artists' Life:

There are two problems with my last post; one was a wrong word (Still can't fix it-find it, that is, and replace it with the right one), and the next problem was forgetting the point of the whole story.

Well I wanted to say that I was the one who had earned tons of some kind of "Turker"-like units of satisfaction, honored by Kylies' devotion. And feel responsible for the few children that do seem drawn to what I am doing. At least they stand by my side and watch me paint for as long as I am painting for that particular session, sometimes an hour, sometimes much longer. And they will just stand around watching, and I feel like their 'art guardian' for that period of time.

And when I am done, I like to nurture their interest, and offer them a bit of paper and paint to mess around with, because the older ones are waiting without asking; I was, at their age, so I just assume. And they've none turned down the offer of a min-lesson and supplies.

Our little twins? - just the same. We've had several art projects and they've loved them for the most part. The main delight we have with our projects is that we have twins - two and one half years old and it is lovely because their mama and dada have really been wonderful about teaching them peaceful coexistence. And so I can offer them a lesson at the same time, which I think is heavenly and they love messing around with all things creative. And rarely does anything unreasonable occur. If it does, it is more like this:

Take a look at the painting of mom & cat:a self-portrait. Notice how the lines are all wobbly and bumpy? This is because Baya was leaning on one side of me and Esme the other, as they each struggled to demand colors and to get the first view of what was emerging from the blankets. They actually "oohed" and "aahed". It feels almost like cheating to paint for them, because they are so easily pleased.

And little ones like ZZ and Baya seem extra amazed when the final picture emerges: how did you do that, Nana? is the question most often asked. The funny thing is, it will be so easy to show them how to make my simple kind of pictures when they have developed that hand-eye coordination that helps them keep their crayons on the paper, just where they want them to go. That alone is the first big deal.

To sum it up, when I teach, I learn, and when I give, I receive. And those ironies are what I learn from. When someone tries to teach me something I get all snooty and my ears get stuffed with cotton balls and I can't hear a thing. But when I offer my knowledge, I offer it freely and happily. I am a big contradiction , so what's new about that?

Friday, February 16, 2007

I am a Turker, when I am bored.


What do Turkers do? Answer questions for the Amazon Mechanical Turk; in other words, answer questions which the computer cannot, or do other things the computer cannot: differentiate between pink, say, and red, the difference between a pizza and a manhole cover. Yup, computers cannot tell you those things, nor can they draw you a picture of a "mom". Which is one "Hit" which I took on and then couldn't send in for credit because I was in Rhode Island with my granddaughters and my email doesn't send out from there. I shouldn't even get email to come in, but I do receive it, regardless. Mysteries aside, my frustration was out of place because none of these tasks pay very much at all. Pennies. But for me it is about finishing what I start, and once I hit the "accept" button for any given task, I will knock myself out trying to complete it in the time allowed, and submit it to the Mechanical Turk.

For some interesting reading, check out the Mechanical Turk history. Someone built an old machine out of wood which could play chess. No one could figure it out, but it could apparently play chess. What a wonder, hey? Why what I am doing is called Artificial Artificial Intelligence is that - amazing - I am needed because I am smarter than the computer and for someone or somebody just like me, who loves questions and puzzles and earning bits of money for doing it - well then this is great fun. Otherwise you will be called a slave wager by your friends like I am by mine. Don't let this sound like I have tons of friends who care about my activities, farthest thing from it. But one or two do think I get so much satisfaction from earning - so far since about last December, $10.83. It would be more, but I paint a lot more than answer questions for Amazon.

This painting was going to be for $.18 but I couldn't email it out in time. Therefore I get to keep it and perhaps one day sell it for more than that. But it brought to mind the story of when I was on Monhegan Island many years ago, and feeling kind of lonely after being there several weeks by myself. A nice little girl named Kylie came and watched me paint for hours and wanted to buy the painting. The problem was I was hoping the ask $240 for it.

Kylies' friends kept dropping by to ask her to go to the store with them to buy candy and she didn't buy any. Brought me her candy money, and I had painted her a little 4"X4" painting much like the large one she had watched me paint all day. Only this one was a surprise. She seemed very happy, and I was very delighted to meet a little kid who would give up their candy for art.

A few years later her mother introduced herself to me on Monhegan again and told me that Kylie still sleeps with that little painting right next to her bed. Isn't that the sweetest thing? It means a lot to me that my pictures can be important to a child. To anybody, but especially a child, because maybe that will help nuture their interest in art as well.