Grace Notes Column as Published in Tribeza Magazine, February 2008.
by Gracie Cavnar
A few years ago, a thousand miles from home on a glorious December day, I happily kneeled on the floor surrounded by dozens of local tchotchkes. I was in Antigua, Guatemala, making up welcome baskets, and writing notes to people I hadn’t seen in decades: a coterie of a dozen siblings that I married into as a child bride and with whom I spent my twenties, in each others lives and business, morning, noon and night, as close as thieves. My practice husband (and his “new” wife,) his brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces and their children—three generations of my old family were coming for a wedding. As I searched for just the right warm tone, faces attached to the names floated in my mind’s eye frozen forever young somewhere in the mid-seventies.
My new family and son, who was the groom, hovered nearby helping me with a million details, preparing our rented villa for the happy occasion. It was to be wedding co-headquarters, site of the rehearsal party, Christmas celebrations, and daily hospitality for the next two weeks, during which we could expect lots of face time with the descending clan of my ex. I had just learned that they would be with us through Christmas and the prospect of sharing so much with them after all these years, had me up to two martinis a night. But love was in the air and I couldn’t help but reminisce.
“Love will keep us together,” warbled the radio as my baby son rolled himself over for the first time and grinned, so proud of himself. My heart was full. Years later when his father and I couldn’t figure out a way to patch over misgivings and failed dreams, it was overwhelming love for our son that mandated civility. The lives of people with children are forever intertwined, and although we had been no good at marriage, for his sake we managed divorce pretty well. Time scabbed over the anger, sadness and guilt, smoothing them into a benign affection. Twenty-five years later we felt more like cousins, and remembrance of each other’s endearing traits put real smiles on our faces. We saw the best of both of us in him—the only success we shared.
Weddings are such a special time, unmatched for emotions run rampant. The congregation stands in witness knowing that a future stretches out in front of the new couple like a tumultuous river of possibilities. Their great karma invades everyone present as happiness energy bounces back to the bride and groom. Joy, love and hope are rekindled in one and all. What is more full of hope than a marriage? Perhaps it is a child, hoping that his far-flung, fractured family can reunite in celebration of one. We were doing it—coming together. It would be our joint wedding gift. There was a slight glow of pride mixed with nervous anticipation that we could manage such a feat.
Only one little niggling concern scratched at my stomach: my son adored both of his fathers, but they didn’t even know each other. How would they get along? On one hand, the beaming stepfather—a trusted mentor and collaborator, the generous host of the two-week party, supported by scores of attending friends. And on the other hand, the biological father—affable, an entertainer at heart, hedging his outsider status by showing up with his entire tribe. My son suspended between the two, needing them both by his side on his most important day. I stood in the middle with him, prepared to broker détente, the most challenging hostess duty of my life. I nervously watched as the two men finally met, my first love and my true love circling each other, gamely reaching out for safe and common ground. Why had I been so worried? It turned out to be our son.
As time ticked away, his fathers slipped into a relaxed, if slightly competitive, camaraderie, swapped stories and bragged about his exploits to each other and anyone who would listen; ran interference and logistics in this far flung place, making sure everything was perfect for him; co-hosted the bachelor party and—most difficult of all—kept his groomsmen in line.
When our son stepped into the nave of the ancient convent ruin, lit by 10,000 candles and a million stars, and looked out on hundreds of smiling faces, there side by side on the front row they beamed brighter than any candle or star. Later at the reception, celebrating guests gyrated and snaked around the room to a primal salsa beat. Suddenly everyone morphed into a big circle, cameras clicking away. In the middle: the two proud fathers swung each other around in a euphoric jitterbug. It was the icing on the wedding cake. Now it was their son’s turn to beam brighter than the stars. His heart was full. Mine too.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Returning from the Last Flush of the Day
Barack at Houston's Toyota Center, February 2008
27,000 packed the house. It is hard to believe that just one year ago, Barack was talking to 125 people in our living room. He knocked their socks off and we were off and running. Political cognoscenti thought we were crazy to support him rather than Hillary, who was considered a slam dunk. We look like geniuses now.
I Can See Clearly Now
Grace Notes Column as published in Tribeza Magazine, January 2008
By Gracie Cavnar
Recently, in response to what I thought was poor vanity lighting, I had a make-up mirror installed. The next morning, I flipped it on and found, peering back at me, magnified seven times over, my mother’s eyes. I don’t mean big, beautiful, blue mother’s eyes; I’m talking the crêpe-lid variety that shocked me as a fourteen year-old in 1966. That was the year I decided to treat my Mom to a make-up session.
I taught modeling at the time. Make-up lessons were a part of the basic instructional package at Ben Shaw Modeling Agency in San Antonio, which meant I was painting up about fifteen faces every week in addition to my own. In 1966 the look was heavy black liner, dramatic brown shadows in the eyelid’s crease, stark white highlights under the brow, lots of eyelashes upper and lower, theatrical bronze blush over the cheekbone plus brown in the hollows and frosted pink lips. Not unlike the current Goth look, sans the black lipstick. Mother must have been horrified, but she wisely gave me a long leash with transitory beauty experiments.
In my dismissive analysis, I hadn’t looked close enough at her face to realize that Mom no longer possessed the taut dermatopalette on which I was used to painting. The minute we started our intimate, girly lark, her cheeks—mushy under my ministration of foundation and blush—surprised me. When I got to her eyes, I was mystified. Her lids moved with even the lightest stroke of my brush, rendering a striking slash of shadow impossible. Concealer congealed in creases under her eyes. No matter how carefully I applied the liquid black liner, the brush trailed a ragged edge rather than the sharp Mod look I was going for.
Trying to keep Mom distracted and not hurt her feelings, I chatted away, but I was flummoxed. Despite my haute couture bravado, I was too inexperienced to know what to do with this 36 year-old, chain smoker’s face. The end result left neither of us excited, but no one let on. She laughed and mugged, and we never mentioned improvement of her make-up techniques again.
Unfortunately, neither did I make the connection that her face was my future as I blithely tripped through adolescence and into young adulthood. My girlfriends and I were smug. We took for granted blushing, dewy fresh skin and bright eyes that had not yet earned any circles. Despite nothing to cover up, we piled on so much make-up that we could have easily melted into the witness protection program without missing a beat. More was better as we became inured to the excesses while mimicking Twiggy’s doll-eyed look. Despite a consuming obsession with perfect make-up, I paid no attention whatsoever to the canvas—my skin. The first thing every morning I washed my face with —shudder—soap and water. Yet, every night for decades, I went to bed with whatever was left of my makeup still clinging and probably clogging. I was oblivious to the consequences.
In an expanded state of oblivion, we spent summer days from dawn until dusk lazing around the community pool, slathered from head to toe in baby oil mixed with iodine. We loved our homemade concoction for the golden glow it imparted while we clocked the sun time required to build up a real tan. In the soaring temperatures of South Texas, we might as well have been slow-baking turkeys. Who knows what horrible long-term affects we unleashed? As a redhead who quickly turned scarlet rather than bronze, I would burn and peel several times a season until I calculated the exact right exposure to transform my natural alabaster color into a light beige. Really good skin care.
It took me years to shun the sun and discover the magical elixir of H2O, which I now swear by; and I can only thank my lucky stars I never smoked. These days I reject the hand soap in favor of a much gentler concoction used more often and wear very little make-up during the day, reserving drama for evening dress-up. Sure, I’ve noticed that my eyes no longer offer as much real estate between lash and brow and that I am a little soft around the jowl, but I have never been one to spend big bucks on magic elixirs or hanker for a facelift. That was before the new make-up mirror.
It may have been a mistake. I was happier in ignorance, perhaps even delusional in thinking that I was aging gracefully. Turns out that I was hoodwinked by my ever more myopic eyes. Holy mascara! Now that I know what youngsters and people who have had Lasik surgery see, I am never allowing my husband under the knife to regain his 20/20 vision. Declining middle-aged eyesight is a beauty asset the power of which should not be taken lightly, so I’m dedicating myself to honoring the natural aging process. After all, do we really want to see everything clearly?
By Gracie Cavnar
Recently, in response to what I thought was poor vanity lighting, I had a make-up mirror installed. The next morning, I flipped it on and found, peering back at me, magnified seven times over, my mother’s eyes. I don’t mean big, beautiful, blue mother’s eyes; I’m talking the crêpe-lid variety that shocked me as a fourteen year-old in 1966. That was the year I decided to treat my Mom to a make-up session.
I taught modeling at the time. Make-up lessons were a part of the basic instructional package at Ben Shaw Modeling Agency in San Antonio, which meant I was painting up about fifteen faces every week in addition to my own. In 1966 the look was heavy black liner, dramatic brown shadows in the eyelid’s crease, stark white highlights under the brow, lots of eyelashes upper and lower, theatrical bronze blush over the cheekbone plus brown in the hollows and frosted pink lips. Not unlike the current Goth look, sans the black lipstick. Mother must have been horrified, but she wisely gave me a long leash with transitory beauty experiments.
In my dismissive analysis, I hadn’t looked close enough at her face to realize that Mom no longer possessed the taut dermatopalette on which I was used to painting. The minute we started our intimate, girly lark, her cheeks—mushy under my ministration of foundation and blush—surprised me. When I got to her eyes, I was mystified. Her lids moved with even the lightest stroke of my brush, rendering a striking slash of shadow impossible. Concealer congealed in creases under her eyes. No matter how carefully I applied the liquid black liner, the brush trailed a ragged edge rather than the sharp Mod look I was going for.
Trying to keep Mom distracted and not hurt her feelings, I chatted away, but I was flummoxed. Despite my haute couture bravado, I was too inexperienced to know what to do with this 36 year-old, chain smoker’s face. The end result left neither of us excited, but no one let on. She laughed and mugged, and we never mentioned improvement of her make-up techniques again.
Unfortunately, neither did I make the connection that her face was my future as I blithely tripped through adolescence and into young adulthood. My girlfriends and I were smug. We took for granted blushing, dewy fresh skin and bright eyes that had not yet earned any circles. Despite nothing to cover up, we piled on so much make-up that we could have easily melted into the witness protection program without missing a beat. More was better as we became inured to the excesses while mimicking Twiggy’s doll-eyed look. Despite a consuming obsession with perfect make-up, I paid no attention whatsoever to the canvas—my skin. The first thing every morning I washed my face with —shudder—soap and water. Yet, every night for decades, I went to bed with whatever was left of my makeup still clinging and probably clogging. I was oblivious to the consequences.
In an expanded state of oblivion, we spent summer days from dawn until dusk lazing around the community pool, slathered from head to toe in baby oil mixed with iodine. We loved our homemade concoction for the golden glow it imparted while we clocked the sun time required to build up a real tan. In the soaring temperatures of South Texas, we might as well have been slow-baking turkeys. Who knows what horrible long-term affects we unleashed? As a redhead who quickly turned scarlet rather than bronze, I would burn and peel several times a season until I calculated the exact right exposure to transform my natural alabaster color into a light beige. Really good skin care.
It took me years to shun the sun and discover the magical elixir of H2O, which I now swear by; and I can only thank my lucky stars I never smoked. These days I reject the hand soap in favor of a much gentler concoction used more often and wear very little make-up during the day, reserving drama for evening dress-up. Sure, I’ve noticed that my eyes no longer offer as much real estate between lash and brow and that I am a little soft around the jowl, but I have never been one to spend big bucks on magic elixirs or hanker for a facelift. That was before the new make-up mirror.
It may have been a mistake. I was happier in ignorance, perhaps even delusional in thinking that I was aging gracefully. Turns out that I was hoodwinked by my ever more myopic eyes. Holy mascara! Now that I know what youngsters and people who have had Lasik surgery see, I am never allowing my husband under the knife to regain his 20/20 vision. Declining middle-aged eyesight is a beauty asset the power of which should not be taken lightly, so I’m dedicating myself to honoring the natural aging process. After all, do we really want to see everything clearly?
Volunteer(holic)
Grace Notes Column as published in Tribeza Magazine, December 2007 :
By Gracie Cavnar
It is a glorious autumn day and I sit on my balcony pretending that writing this column is the only thing on my to do list. Of course I am in complete denial.
Hello, my name is Gracie and I am a volunteerholic. I’m trying to quit.
What happened to the carefree days of my twenties and thirties when all I had to do was hold down a job, raise a child, read, garden, cook, craft, attend painting class, jazzercise and throw dinner parties every Friday night? Why is it that now I’m an empty nester with no 9-5 grind and plenty of household help, I can’t find two minutes for myself, let alone time to read, garden, cook, paint, (see above), etc.? I am determined to regain time in my life to do the things I love.
My family remains dubious about my commitment to recovery. Listening to my endless excuses, they nod and smile. “As soon as I’m done with this (fill in the blank here: gala, auction, program, website, blah, blah, blah) I will have so much more time to (fill in the blank here: spend with you, talk to you on the phone, cook, travel, read, paint, write, have weekly dinner parties, go to lunch with my friends, learn to play golf, blah, blah, blah.)”
“I have been hearing this my whole life,” laments my son. “You have said this before,” reminds my husband. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” laughs a girlfriend.
In my defense, I have cut back a lot, inspired by several incredible friends who have accomplished great things by focusing their energy on one primary mission (at a time.) A girlfriend suggests her mantra: “I am so honored that you would think of me for this important job, and if I could do it, I would, but I can’t.” This is what I’m trying to do. Stay focused. One thing. Say no. Uh huh.
As anyone who has raised money for a charity knows, with every donation comes a chit, and when that chit is called in, it can’t be ignored. This causes me to make lots of guilt commitments: “Of course I can help with your auction, after all you did for me!” Having been in the wheedling business myself causes me to take pity on friends, even when I know that they are lying: “This won’t take any time at all . . . the staff does everything . . . just sign a few letters . . . really we just want to use your name . . .”
The most enticing petitioners are canny enough to ask for your time years in advance, when you can talk yourself into the commitment by playing like you won’t have anything else to do by then. This tactic works particularly well for big galas that will dominate an entire year of your life—a prospect that can only be entertained through the rose-colored glasses of time and distance. Of course it never works out that way—the nothing else on my plate by then delusion.
Usually it plays out like this: The year you are chairing a million dollar ball, your child will decide to marry and your husband will get a wild hair to build a dream home in another state—maybe even another country. Both endeavors should bring joy and excitement to your life. Instead, you clock the hours equivalent to three fulltime jobs and maintain a 24-hour rolling to do list in your head that moves you through the day like a shark. For a year, you will be thirty minutes late to everything, forget friends’ birthdays, cut them short in telephone chats and miss all the relaxed no reason lunches, trips and fun. You will maneuver daily through a flood of emails and never have a moment to shop despite the perpetual need to wear the perfect ensemble to endless rounds of gatherings and meetings. You will eat on the run and fall off your exercise regime yet still manage to lose weight, which should look great in all the photographs if it weren’t for the circles under your eyes from lack of sleep. And you will never convince your sisters, or anyone else for that matter, that you are not living the Life of Riley because the social press makes it seem as if you are having fun, fun, fun. (This is a clever tactic by the media to entice others into the fold of over-committed ball chairs.) You will collapse from exhaustion the moment you finish and not wake up for a month. The phone calls start even before your kudos from the successful event dies down. “We would absolutely love for you to chair our ball next year!”
Not that this has ever happened to me, I’m talking about a woman I know. Take a deep breath and repeat: I am so honored . . .
By Gracie Cavnar
It is a glorious autumn day and I sit on my balcony pretending that writing this column is the only thing on my to do list. Of course I am in complete denial.
Hello, my name is Gracie and I am a volunteerholic. I’m trying to quit.
What happened to the carefree days of my twenties and thirties when all I had to do was hold down a job, raise a child, read, garden, cook, craft, attend painting class, jazzercise and throw dinner parties every Friday night? Why is it that now I’m an empty nester with no 9-5 grind and plenty of household help, I can’t find two minutes for myself, let alone time to read, garden, cook, paint, (see above), etc.? I am determined to regain time in my life to do the things I love.
My family remains dubious about my commitment to recovery. Listening to my endless excuses, they nod and smile. “As soon as I’m done with this (fill in the blank here: gala, auction, program, website, blah, blah, blah) I will have so much more time to (fill in the blank here: spend with you, talk to you on the phone, cook, travel, read, paint, write, have weekly dinner parties, go to lunch with my friends, learn to play golf, blah, blah, blah.)”
“I have been hearing this my whole life,” laments my son. “You have said this before,” reminds my husband. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” laughs a girlfriend.
In my defense, I have cut back a lot, inspired by several incredible friends who have accomplished great things by focusing their energy on one primary mission (at a time.) A girlfriend suggests her mantra: “I am so honored that you would think of me for this important job, and if I could do it, I would, but I can’t.” This is what I’m trying to do. Stay focused. One thing. Say no. Uh huh.
As anyone who has raised money for a charity knows, with every donation comes a chit, and when that chit is called in, it can’t be ignored. This causes me to make lots of guilt commitments: “Of course I can help with your auction, after all you did for me!” Having been in the wheedling business myself causes me to take pity on friends, even when I know that they are lying: “This won’t take any time at all . . . the staff does everything . . . just sign a few letters . . . really we just want to use your name . . .”
The most enticing petitioners are canny enough to ask for your time years in advance, when you can talk yourself into the commitment by playing like you won’t have anything else to do by then. This tactic works particularly well for big galas that will dominate an entire year of your life—a prospect that can only be entertained through the rose-colored glasses of time and distance. Of course it never works out that way—the nothing else on my plate by then delusion.
Usually it plays out like this: The year you are chairing a million dollar ball, your child will decide to marry and your husband will get a wild hair to build a dream home in another state—maybe even another country. Both endeavors should bring joy and excitement to your life. Instead, you clock the hours equivalent to three fulltime jobs and maintain a 24-hour rolling to do list in your head that moves you through the day like a shark. For a year, you will be thirty minutes late to everything, forget friends’ birthdays, cut them short in telephone chats and miss all the relaxed no reason lunches, trips and fun. You will maneuver daily through a flood of emails and never have a moment to shop despite the perpetual need to wear the perfect ensemble to endless rounds of gatherings and meetings. You will eat on the run and fall off your exercise regime yet still manage to lose weight, which should look great in all the photographs if it weren’t for the circles under your eyes from lack of sleep. And you will never convince your sisters, or anyone else for that matter, that you are not living the Life of Riley because the social press makes it seem as if you are having fun, fun, fun. (This is a clever tactic by the media to entice others into the fold of over-committed ball chairs.) You will collapse from exhaustion the moment you finish and not wake up for a month. The phone calls start even before your kudos from the successful event dies down. “We would absolutely love for you to chair our ball next year!”
Not that this has ever happened to me, I’m talking about a woman I know. Take a deep breath and repeat: I am so honored . . .
New Beginnings
In January, I started a Watercolor class at the Glassell School with my old friend Janet Hassinger. For years, I had longed to study with Janet and finally the time was right. And I have found that having an appointment to do something, forces the point. In other words, I love to paint, but never seem to have the time. Now with homework due and class to attend, I would be painting at least twice a week. I decided to focus on flowers, perhaps inspired by my first paintings of Janet's, whose botanicals were the very first art purchases I ever made back in the early 70's. I still have the pieces, a lyrical blue iris and a softly abstract pink rose, hanging above my desk.
After years of off and on study of watercolor, mostly with Carolyn Graham, I was still tight. Trying to paint like I draw. It only took a few weeks with Janet to completely change my approach and all of the sudden I was producing work that I liked and that everyone else did too.
This is a piece I did for my mother-in-law's birthday. She loves Bluebonnets, and lives on Bluebonnet Drive, so now she has note cards.
I Can't Believe It's Been Six Months Since I Posted Anything
Starting today, I am going to catch up and keep up. So stay tuned for a series of quick highlights from January through June.
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