Reinventing My Craft, My Art and Myself – Part 1

Handcraft-Los-Angeles-Artists

If you are an entrepreneur, you’re just born that way – it’s just something in our bone marrow.  I remember charging neighborhood kids a dime to watch me do an interpretive dance to “Bad Bad LeRoy Brown” in our paneled basement in the 70s.  The crazy part is they paid.

I was a loner as a kid,  I preferred one or two really good friends as opposed to lots of people to hang out with and I didn’t mind being alone ever.  Still don’t.  I liked to write in my diary,  tape photographs all over my closet walls, make quilts from pant legs.  The usual.

I had my glowing orange mushroom lamp and my rust colored shag bean bag chair, my banana yellow Tootaloop phone, an awesome scratchy record player and a tv with giant foil covered antennae.   A teenage girls sanctuary.

I remember cutting up all my pants and jeans and making a giant quilt I sewed by hand out of the pant legs.  All colors of denim and corduroy – even my tan colored “Dittos”.  Reminds me now of that quilt the bereft lover knitted in “Like Water for Chocolate” for her long lost love that unfolded for miles and miles and miles of missing him.

When my parents divorce, we moved into an apartment complex across town, more into the nitty gritty city as opposed to the lush green deadening safety of the suburbs or as we called them then, “developments,” where everyone and everything we knew carried on as usual.

I had no idea where we were, no one to hang out with and nothing to do, so I knocked on every apartment door and introduced myself.  I was 14 and my inner entrepreneur was antsy.  There were four floors, 8-10 apartments per floor and a brightly lit spacious laundry room on each floor.  I liked the laundry room, it was quiet and clean and smelled like fresh cotton.

I knocked on every apartment door one day when we settled in.  When the apartment door opened I introduced myself and asked the tenant if they had any dogs I could walk or kids I could watch.  Some of them looked startled but sort of went with it.  One of them was a mailman.  He had a huge mop of a dog named Oliver – a Sheep dog three times the size of me – the same kind of dog that was in the movie “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies”.

Oliver walked me – actually Oliver flew me like a kite.  I was a kite he  was flying as he took of romping as soon as we left the building.  I had no control whatsoever over this dog who ran like a bull out of the gate. You would think the mail man would have considered this, but Oliver was happy and I was busy trying to hang on.  Like I said I was a young bored entrepreneur, and I was just getting started……

 

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