The Lardner Report

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The Art Of Knowing What Matters

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How the Southern Cal wildfires forced me to “go deep” — again.

(Pic #2) Safe! Classic blades from the 1960s.

One of the things artists do, is draw attention to what’s important, or at least to what they think is important. They do this with shape, color, texture, light, and shadow. That part is easy. The hard part is knowing what’s important. It’s true in art, it’s true in life.

On January 17th, 1994, I was in Lake Tahoe on assignment when the Northridge earthquake struck. Within hours I had learned that my personal sanctuary, my house-on-stilts in Coldwater canyon was a total loss, and had been red tagged. It was deemed uninhabitable, and more than that, just stepping foot in the house would be not only foolhardy, but illegal. However, my things were in there, and I wanted them. No, I needed them. When I got to the house, the driveway was literally torn away from the street. I could look down and see the canyon. But I hopped over the crevice and went in anyway.

I needed my mementos, my artwork, my clothes, my important papers. Understandable right? Those things are important. But — apparently I also absolutely had to have my ice skates, which I hadn’t worn since I was 16, and my cookware, which got less use than my ice skates. In that moment I had lost all sense of what was important. When I got back on solid ground, physically and emotionally, I swore that would never happen again.

(Pic #3) The view from our house, as we heard calls for mandatory evacuation.

Then a couple weeks ago my neighborhood caught fire. Josh was at work when the word came to evacuate. He told me to get together the things I absolutely couldn’t live without, and he would pick them up in a couple hours. In the meantime, I would grab the cats, and go. I won’t go into detail about the huge pile of curious things assembled for him to retrieve, I will only say I’d forgotten my pledge.

I am not sure exactly what the lesson is here. Except to say this: The firestorm has passed, hundreds of homes were burned, ours was spared. The people I love are safe. My cats are happy and healthy. I still have my ice skates. I also have, once again, a commitment to focus on what’s important. My hope is that I will remember to give those things shape, and color, and texture and light, and leave the inconsequential things in the shadows.

Wish me luck.

The Holy Truth About Halloween: It Never Was About The Candy

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(Pic #1) Young artist contemplates the next level of color. Laser focus. The Next Gen Helen Frankenthaler?

For the last 30 years, we’ve sponsored art workshops for children in the often forgotten heart of the inner-city, South Central Los Angeles. Since 1988, we’ve offered holiday painting sessions with no rules. The community turns out very time, and an unbridled sense of self-expression — though paint, glitter, beads and pipe cleaners — takes over the neighborhood park. Toddlers, teens, grandmas and Moms sit with one another for hours — making art.  I’ve written about this experience many times. And each year I think — have I hit the wall? Will these workshops become more of a hassle than a beacon of light?

NEVER.

(Pic #2) World famous abstract painter Helen Frankenthaler in her New York studio, 1969. Photograph by Ernst Haas / Getty Images

Every year, we witness fearlessness, freedom of artistic expression, and for a few hours, the absence of anyone telling the kids they have to “do it this way.” They splatter paint; they collage. They toss glitter all over the room, and in the end, they’ve spent the day like an artist: exploring, pushing the envelope, and having a blast. There’s no angst, no second thoughts, no insecurity. I guess you could call it a brand of reckless abandon that starts with no real plans to speak of, a table full of colorful clutter, and ends with remarkable original work. And they don’t even know it. Nor do they care.

More often than not, I see kids using materials in ways I had never thought of — and I’ve been making art since I was four. My artist friend, Julia Strickler volunteers every year. Today she told me she’s “in constant awe” observing how open the children are — that even when they’re shy, “art creates a connection.” And you can’t help but notice they just ooze pure joy. Julia says when they make something that is uniquely theirs — “every detail is beautiful — the colors, the sparkles, and even the drips.”

Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” I’m hopeful these extraordinary talents figure that out.

BTW, I didn’t see one child playing games on his Mom’s iPhone, nor did we hear any whining. Check out our photos and maybe you’ll see why.

 

 

 

Thank you, Benita Dixon and staff at the Van Ness Recreation Center for welcoming our Hope’s Nest volunteers into your most spirited, creative commmunity.

 

The Art of Healing

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(Pic #1) “Piglet” in her best days. Rest In peace, my princess.

We lost “Piglet” our 14-year old, deaf, asthmatic cat (with one tooth) today. If you’ve had to put your pet down, you know the agony. “When is the best time? Am I prolonging her suffering? Will I really know the perfect moment to bring her in?” The whole thing made me crazy, painfully unsure, and sick to my stomach. You never really get the answers, and if you do, you will still question your actions. I must have talked to four or five friends and relatives — asking all of them for their diagnoses on Piglet’s movements and demeanor. Sue, my loving friend who is a registered nurse, and my uber-compassionate sister-in-law, Leandra, took the brunt of my frenetic calls. For a while, I couldn’t breathe, and if it hadn’t been for my inhaler, I might have gone to the emergency room for my own species.

(Pic #2) Piglet, days before the end.

I couldn’t bear to see her suffer. I couldn’t stand to let her go. But it appeared to be the right call. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, and then when she was “on the table” at the ER vet, I pressed my ear up against her face, and cupped her head. From that tiny velvet nose I heard a weak but rhythmical purr — and just lost it. That was the last communication between us. So in the light of morning, I dragged myself to the gym, and shared my sadness with gym mates. Those awful waves of grief kept crashing in my head, and the ache never left my belly. Then I received a text from my husband Josh, with this video (below) attached. It was a love session with our other shelter cat, “Mukluk.” A full-on purr festival between another magical furry creature and a man who knew exactly what I needed to see, and hear. Suddenly, I felt enrobed in love. In a 36-second recording, Josh found the perfect way to lift my spirits, appreciate the gifts we have, and suggest gratitude over grief. Could there be any better way to heal? Pictures of PIglet and Mukluk below. Mukluk Purr festival from Lonnie Lardner on Vimeo.

(Pic #3) Piglet sunbathing under the bougainvillea.

(Pic #4) Mukluk in the garden.

(Pic #5) Mukluk and Piglet — peacefully coexisting.