Cancellation Notice

"The more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people." -Vincent van Gogh

Welcome to attempt no. five or twelve to write today's blog. Attempt 6.7.8.9.10.11 was just thwarted by two Church Owls who say: 1. I don't read your blog anymore. 2. Your blog is much better now that it is less esoteric.

"You write a blog?" Brother in Law inquired.

There is too much going on around here to say just what is inspiring- but with four pro-artists in the mix, there must be something.

I have heard that funny people (as in people who won't stop joking) are typically more sensitive than regular, boring, not funny people. It's probably true. That's why Dad and I made an agreement to "Affect Change" this Christmas. We decided to see what would happen if instead of teasing people who get holiday stressy, we merely offered compliments.

Most over used compliment of the holiday season: My your hair looks nice. Score: Christmas has been cancelled do to extreme overuse of this compliment and complete failure to affect change. Conclusion: Dad and his favorite daughter are far too sensitive.

"The more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to affect change." -Rachel Kice

Photo: "Gingerbread House Competition Update."

On Chili On Cheating On Meaning

"A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession." -Albert Camus

Kansas. Again. Top Question, Wizard of Oz references excluded: What is there to do in Kansas?

Answer: The answers are endless. There is so much to do in Kansas and there is even more to do in Kansas when you save up your errands for your trip to Kansas.

In an attempt to keep this blog related to my work, please see: Absurdism. It is all that I can think to reference as a means of kind of starting to explain why it is so terribly important that my family travel long distances to be together for a Gingerbread House building contest and/or that we would seek to justify the importance of anything.

Dad built Gingerbread project housing. Mom built a pristine row house. Sister topped Mom with a pristine row house complete with a painfully detailed candy wreath. I threw in a dog house. Daughter created a Mansion- she placed Santa minus one reindeer on top of it- a Gingerbread Girl shot the missing reindeer. Other sister built, um, I don't know what, but it looks like a good place to start a cult? The age 3-5 genius kiddies created reasonably priced California-style ranch homes. Brother in Law rested. He sold 100 sculptures last week. It's enough. Everyone played "Pass the Baby." The baby smiled. The baby laughed. The baby ate avocado.

Things feel important sometimes. So many different things seem important. "You remind me of Ramen Noodles," Guy at Bar says to Sister, "Because I like them so much." Score: Ramen Noodles cost a dollar for five packs. If you have ever felt that anything at all might matter, at least buy my sister a drink.

"I love rules," my daughter announced, "I love following them as much as I love making them."

We aren't worried about my daughter. Her future is safe in her sound mind. She didn't even stick around for the chili making contest, "I already know that my mom can make chili," she grumbled, "And you are all are going to cheat."

This must be a good place to insert: The vote was unanimous. My chili is the shit. My chili is the shit even with jelly beans that I didn't put in it, in it. I survived the grocery store. Got everything on the list. The list was in my head.

"But you blog like you can't cook!" Midnight Bird of Prey objected. The Lion agreed. The Church Owls echoed- as if blogging and cooking were friends- as if they depended on each other- as if the blog would have been more interesting had I bragged about my chili.

If I'm still getting to know you, then you're still getting to know me. Please wait in the dog house until the mansion is ready. If when you open the envelope, I pause (pause, pause, pause), that's when the chili is simmering. That's when my daughter returns with a gift- a movie that I've been wanting to see- about blogging- and cooking. Absurd. And meaningful. All of it. To me.

"A guilty competitor need not confess. A work of art always wins." -Rachel Kice

photo: the ultimate in sibling rivalry. Sister One tags the candy home of Sister Two with "Rkice" graffiti

Hummingbirds LOVE Sugar

"The highest art is always the most religious, and the greatest artist is always a devout person." -Abraham Lincoln

NEW TEMPORARY MANTRA: If there is nothing a blog can't start, then there is nothing a blog can't fix.

Welcome to: this is me on the tail end of a creative tidal surge. Like all tidal surges, barriers are broken until they eventually break themselves. I take full responsibility. I want to text and drive and bang my head on the steering wheel at the same time. But I'm somebody's mother. I want to live. So I increase my odds of success. I don't do that. Even if I were to sit up straight in an old fashioned school house, like from a Laura Ingalls Wilder book, in a wood chair, with focus and send half the texts that I want to send right now, something would die. I don't know exactly what, but it would. I'm ok with that. As long as whatever it is lives.

I'm a cartoon. I'm a ballerina who went to half the classes, got to the recital late, forgot my shoes and cut my silky underwear into pieces, tied them around my feet and with one leap, went sliding across the stage on my back. It hurts. If you felt afraid, if you gasped, if you felt uncomfortable, if you tried to ignore it: imagine my pain. Ouch. It hurts. I'm in the hospital. The hospital is important. The hospital counts. The hospital is where you recover. This is the hospital. It makes you think:

I read all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books that I could get my hands on at age six. I went to first grade exhausted because I stayed up reading until I fell asleep reading. It was just first grade. My parents didn't know what to do. I wore a bonnet and skirt with a petticoat when it was time to do the dishes the old fashioned way- in the sink- because the dishwasher was broken. They say it was hard to punish a kid with a passion for reading. Other kids were just learning to read. I was indie-reader. I couldn't stop. Reading is good. Who could call me wrong? I'm still that kid. Only with more passion. And more sleep. And the Internet.

Note to Muse:

If you're Brad Pitt then I'm the lyrics to Lady Gaga's song, "Paparazzi." Only I don't know the words. I just know how that song makes me feel. Inspired. Passionate. Like you told me. Like at least one thing we have in common. Like I'm on the plane and I can't stop writing. So what if it matters on earth? I'm not on earth. Until I am. Until the tidal wave crashes. Until I hear "Paprazzi" on the radio and realize that the words are far more frightening than, "Think about it. I'm your biggest fan. I must be. And I think you're so cute that I would frame a picture of you peeing in the yard."

"The highest inspiration is always the least religious, and the greatest muse is always an understanding person." -Rachel Kice

photo: "Hummingbird Food" sugar and water in cheerful vessel.

Party Before Change

If I weren't such a varmint, today's blog would be far more poetic. Like what I felt and what actually happened that got me to this varmint-status.

"Life changing," a Church Owl said about my new work. Score. She's no easy critic- art or life. And she's right. I scurried to Princess Ann Claire's place to bum a beer instead of wine. For the past month or more, I have been an absentee to all but my family, neighbors, and somehow, the super-sneaky Midnight Bird of Prey, who may get a new moniker for Hanukkah and that's ok.

There are some things that I'm still trying to explain to myself even though I have them printed out list-style on a paper in my purse. Like how is it possible that I test out as a Type-B personality? And does it matter that I feel like I'm just starting to get it about everything on this list? Wait. Did my daughter really shoot a deer in heart? Deer seem big. I wonder what it weighed. Why do I wonder this?

For now, it's time to concentrate on the "Sketchy Christmas Party." I hope to have fun. You and yours are invited: Dec. 15th. * 1200 Villa Pl. Nashville, 37212 * located at the corner of Edgehill and Villa * just off Music Row * some free food * $2.00 Hot Dogs * Live Christmas Tree Painting * BYO x-mas Tree * 6:30-10pm. Attire: Sketchy * Sketches and art by (me) Rachel Kice.

photo: "Asshole, Etc." Sketch by Rachel Kice, 2009

My Dear Killing

"You fail only if you stop... -Ray Bradbury

One bullet straight to the heart. My daughter killed a deer. She called me while it was still twitching and updated her social networks on her new "touch" phone. This is a person who gets everything she wants, including the acrylic zebra print fingernails that didn't get in the way of the trigger.

"Oh Mommy! It's soft," my daughter reported, from the side of her dead deer, "I don't know if I will ever the the picture of it falling down out of my head."

This is the part where I sit down and try not to cry. A few years removed from vegetarianism, I'm ok with the killing part. It's the daughter killing a large mammal part for which I was unprepared. She is tall, but she's a little girl. She killed something. Need I ask why? Why?

"The Circle of Life" from "The Lion King," plays background music my head. Is it because my daughter killed a deer or because earlier in the day I had taped a picture of her at age two, wearing a ruffle dress, ruffle socks and a ruffle bonnet, on the fridge. She was was hunting Easter eggs, then.

While my daughter out bad-assed every man I've ever met, my own mother's voice comforted me, "It is proof that we all have our own personalities," she spoke warmly- we have daughters who do unexpected things in common.

My daughter decided to give the venison to a family of 20. She might save me a bite.

Meanwhile at the art studio, I hadn't planned for being tired after two days of moving large canvases and other merchandise from storage. It did need to be done, but it didn't stop my brain from burning a hole in itself over the new series of work that I intended to kill this weekend.

"Don't kill. Massage." Midnight Bird of Prey texted words of encouragement from the after-life, but even he couldn't reach me.

I fell asleep with the worst art that I've ever created at my side.

"It's ok," my daughter reminds me, "I slept through my first hunt."


"You only start when you wake up..." -Rachel Kice

photo: "Poof," illustration by Rachel Kice, 2009

Sketchy Party

You are invited to my:

"Rkice Sketchy Holiday Party" Dec. 15 6:30-10pm * 1200 Villa Pl. Nashville, 37212 (at the corner of Villa and Edgehill)* look for the balloons * sketches and art by Rachel Kice on display * music: you never know who's gonna show * live tree painting: BYO x-mas tree * loveislove

Moral Profits and Death Art Brief

"Fantasy love is much better than reality love." -Andy Warhol

That's me in the corner. That's me in the Montgomery Gentry spot light... Loosing my religion? Using my religion? I can never remember the words...

Really, it's not up to me why this photo reminds me of yesterday's musing on Jeff Koons's quote concerning the "morality theatre."

I doubt that I would have the skill or even guts to hunt a bear if it were chasing me.

Fact: Both Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Gentry have only been exceptionally kind, polite, and gracious to me each time that we have met. It's more than I can say for some lesser and better known strangers.

Probable Fact: Contemporary artist,Damien Hirst hired the death of a shark, among other creatures. Who knows what the going rate for a shark killing is, but at some point, he came out ahead.

With "morality theatre" stuck in my head: I like art, music and meat. I feel like, "flip-flop, flip-flop, flip."

A. I don't like Hirst's stuffed shark work of art.

B. I do like the title of it, " The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living."

A. That's why I don't like Mr. Gentry's "bear in a cage."

C. Certainly that means I am a Hirst fan.

But. And. What I really don't like is thinking about all the animals in cages that have been killed that I have eaten. Blewh. Yuck.

But. And. I'll do it again.

And so will many of us.

I'm just guessing, but I seriously doubt that we'll buy up and eat all the meat in Kroger before it expires. Mr. Gentry's probation and $15,000.00 fine was a drop in the hat compared to the dollars that are already regularly spent and wasted on killing animals in cages.

And. The good journalists mentioned Mr. Gentry's more popular songs.

We must be fortunate that going to the grocery store is not a matter of survival. How convenient. We have time to do so many other things.

Example of Things to Do That Exclude Many Options: Lie. Cheat. Steal. Manipulate. Strive. Second guess. Hurt. Cry. Love. Pretend. Pretend to love. Guess again. Feel. Feel certain. Feel uncertain. Diminish our feelings. Diminish others. Diminish the feelings of others. Get a little sleep. Help. Get help. Encourage. Talk. Hike. Run. Play. Drink. Eat. Shower. Watch movies. Think. Have sex. Think more. Love more. Make jokes. Laugh. Judge. Assign meaning to meaning to the moral theatre.

The best show wins. Correct me if I'm wrong.

"Fantasy is much better loved than reality, unless it is called art." -Rachel Kice

photo: that is me in the left corner creating art in performance with Montgomery Gentry