Humanitarian Aid Begins at Home

Peruvian gourds

For those of you who read my latest article, about Saving Creativity by Supporting Local Artists in America, I must pass along this link for one of Martha Stewart’s blogs which I stumbled upon by accident.  It’s the proverbial straw which broke this camel’s back, and I hope you'll take a look:

A Visit-to-the-Artisan-Villages-of-Haiti-with-Macys CEO

Hoping to garner support for our cause (struggling artists in America), what did I find but an article about Martha's recent trip with the CEO of Macys, Terry Lundgren, to Haiti, where Macys is purchasing artisan goods for their stores.

It’s a humanitarian effort and I’m all for artists, in any country, trying to earn a living.  It’s not easy,  but before people feel good about helping the impoverished citizens of Haiti, they must ask themselves:  How much is really going to the artists?   

Haitian artists make fabulous items, and just like other third world countries, entire families, sometimes whole villages, work together to produce their goods.  How do I know?  They’ve told me, during International Art Festivals in which I've participated, plus I’ve seen manufacturing plants in Taiwan. That’s how they can crank out their levels of handmade production.  Maybe we should do away with child labor laws here, to make us more competitive in this New World Market?

Look at Martha’s photos more closely.  Who are the ones really smiling?

The first photo shows Martha and CEO Terry, happily photographed in a private jet, off to take advantage of great bargains emerging from the rubble of a holocaust.  That in itself seems insulting, but it brings to mind another ugly period in history.  Lucky for Mr. Lundgren, anything can be purchased for a song, and that’s really the appeal, but they’ll put the humanitarian spin in the forefront to distract and mislead savvy shoppers.  Don’t be fooled.

They’ll buy crafts from artists who can live on a pittance, and mark them up at least 100%.  Good news if you’re a Macy’s shareholder.  So where is your hard-earned going?

Galleries and stores generally take 50% of the purchase price; besides the artist's fee, there’s the shipping and handling, advertising, packaging, middlemen to be paid, and who knows how many palms to be greased before that hard working artist sees a single santim.  Not to mention that jet. You pay $15 for an ornament, easy to do in Macys;  I’m guessing the artist sees about a buck.

This is not sour grapes; this is fed up.  That’s why today people around the globe are participating in anti-Wall Street demonstrations, and greed in general.  This is just another piece of that same pie.  So feel good about supporting those middlemen and corporate brokers, but then take a look at all the artists in your own back yard.  We can’t live on $30 a month; could you?  

Starving Artists Run in the Family

George Thompson Pritchard, 1878-1962, was an artist from New Zealand who ultimately found commercial success in the United States, with his landscapes and seascapes. He was my great-uncle.

The following is from his biography (for more see  ArtisticGallery.com, Jay and Carole Rosenblatt): “During WWI Pritchard lived in Canada, New York City and Richmond, Virginia.”

One sentence skims over so many untold stories.  The following would be in danger of disappearing with its last remaining witness, my mother, Adrienne Courtney Pritchard Urban, shown here with an early oil of Uncle G's.

Mom was still a toddler when her parents, Sydney E. and Elizabeth (known as Nancy) Pritchard, lived on Riverside Drive in New York City in the 20’s and 30's.  Arturo Toscanini was a neighbor.  As if it happened yesterday, Mom recalls,

“One day my Mother opened the front door. A frightening-looking man stood there, hair and clothes disheveled; he looked to be a vagrant. To my astonishment my Mother cried, “George,” threw her arms around her husband’s brother, and led him inside.”

Mom doesn’t know how long Uncle George stayed with her parents while he got back on his feet nor does she know from whence he came, but she does remember watching him work:

“I’d sit on the stairs going down to the basement, where Uncle George had his easels set up  He painted under different names: his own, Jane Wilcox and Kleinfeller; but the styles were all different.  He’d swizzle his whiskey, classical music blaring and dab paint on four or five canvases at once, his left arm flailing behind him. 

“He’d get orders from NYC department stores for so many works by this artist and so many by that.  He left many paintings with my parents when he moved on," but unfortunately they were forced to sell or barter many of them during hard times. "The rest were eventually divided between the five of us children.”

Uncle George's paintings get traded within our family like baseball cards.  Mom owns five but only three are burned into my memory:  an oil featuring a beautiful Dutch sailing ship (right, with Dad and me; perhaps influencing my own adventures on Ruff Life); an oil landscape shown further up, with Mom and her terrific red wallpaper;and lastly Gathering Kelp, a watercolor depicting a horse-drawn cart on a deserted lane (above right, with Mom on her b-day, shortly before her passing).

I've seen that same painting elsewhere online yet assumed Mom's to be the original but maybe they're ALL originals, since he painted more than one canvas at a time. I've painted dozens of similar pieces at the same time myself, and each one's an original.  Makes sense.

Mom inherited two more small paintings after Uncle Dolf, who remained childless, passed away.  All of them have their original frame.

Reading Uncle George’s bio, he appears to have had a relatively smooth path to acclaim but I know otherwise, and that gives me tremendous hope. Even George Thompson Pritchard was once one step away from “Skid Row”, but with hard work and determination he ultimately became a successful, renowned artist.
One of his paintings, depicting the signing of the Bill of Rights by William III, was presented to the New Zealand House of Representatives. You can read about it on Google Books but I'll have to dig up the newspaper account, with painting, packed at home.
Update June 2020:  FOUND IT! (left)

So whenever I get discouraged and ready to give up I think of Uncle George and his stump, and remind myself that it’s not just talent but perseverance. Hope springs eternal in my soul, so I sure hope I’ve inherited some of his genes!

P.S. A GTP watercolor of the Anne Hathaway Cottage (Shakespeare's wife) was painted for his sister-in-law Nancy as a reminder of home in England, I imagine.
It was always a favorite of Aunt Cathy's, who stayed with her sister-in-law while Uncle Julian (who initially lost out on the divvying of paintings) was stationed overseas. Aunt Barbara, who also had more than one, gifted it to Aunt C, where it took center stage in their living room forevermore.  For another story with additional family photos please enjoy, "What was Good Enough for Mom."   



Please write for permission to use photographs and excerpts, thank you.

Loan Dolphins



Woofers and Tweeters
Baking Mix

I’m waiting for the results of a sales pitch for a business which developed out of a hobby:  Woofers and Tweeters whole food baking mixes for dogs.  When I do finally get my first big order, will I be able to afford to buy the materials to deliver?  I’m working on a shoestring and trying to juggle several new ventures simultaneously.  Not the best way, I know, but I’ve just recently gotten my Mojo back, as a friend calls it, after life’s latest hiccup, and this is one last-ditch attempt to stay afloat.  The proverbial straw was my printer quitting the day before my first local teaching seminar; it’s bleeding ink and a piece of rubber hangs out the front like a tongue.  I just asked too much of it.

Charity Begins at McDonalds

Yesterday was one of the few times this Starving Artist splurged 3 bucks for a McDouble for me and fries for BC while at a local shopping center.  That’s our version of Eating Out.  Munching contentedly, I watched a couple sitting on a triangular meridian strip; the man turning with a cardboard sign towards approaching cars, none of which stopped for them.  During the lulls, he held his sign over the woman’s head, protecting her from the blazing sun.

Even though a recent bank statement showed a balance of 44 cents, I wanted to help.  I felt guilty about eating my burger, then, noting they carried a few extra pounds, decided they probably ate better than I.

SMACK, mentally, across my face.  Who am I to know what’s happening in their lives?  I know, I’ll give them the small, extra umbrella I have in my glove box.  Yeah, but what’s that worth?  SMACK.  That’s not the point of generosity. 

I pulled up, stopped, and the man just stared until I reached out towards them, “…for the sun…”.  Surprised at first, he thanked me on behalf of his wife, who was already pretty burned. 

Afterwards I questioned my sensibility, then decided I’d smacked myself enough for one afternoon.  Spontaneity prompted my gesture, just as it had all the countless friends and strangers who have, and still do, helped me while struggling to continue as an artist.   All we really need is enough for today, and I can’t remember the last time I pulled out the umbrella, even in downpours.  It’s Oregon!  Like living on the boat, you just get wet.

Perks as a Starving Artist

Here’s a typical episode for me. Last week I had my first experience with an in-store demonstration at the supermarket.  I was in the front row.  Just for watching, we were each given a plastic tool that looked like a switchblade.  Living all those years on my boat in the Caribbean I’d missed seeing food channels and infomercials, and I was so mesmerized by the energetic gal wielding the latest slicer-dicer I didn’t even mind being sprayed with apple juice. I likewise watched the audience’s reactions. 

There were ten of us, all over 40 except one young gal with 2 toddlers.  We oohhh’d and aahhh’d as Demo Gal turned fruits and veggies into flowers and palm trees; she even made a cucumber shark. We stared open mouthed as she brought out yet more free gifts available only to us, at prices so unbelievable she just didn’t know how her bosses managed it.  The woman next to me smiled knowingly.  Bless this little gal’s heart, I thought.  I remember when I had all that enthusiasm.  I hope she gets paid by the hour.

“Who’ll take one?”  First hand in the air was the woman next to me.  My neck snapped back and forth as one hand after another shot up; literally everyone took one except the young Mom and me.  She obviously had a good reason.  “Anyone else?”

Talk about on the spot.  “I’d like one…”

A box moved towards me so I quickly added, “but I’m a Starving Artist.” 

Chuckles erupted as she said, “Awww, we need to support our artists.  Somebody buy her a set.”

“Buy a bag,” I replied as I held up my gourd purse; I’ve been hawking these bags to anyone who’ll listen for a couple years.  More chuckles.  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

But I did get a second switchblade as a consolation prize, and I merrily walked away.