I fall somewhere in the middle of all that thinking. I’m convinced competition can be a motivator, snapping you out of routine to step up to a new challenge. It surely offers opportunity to not only get out and network, but also to expose one’s wares to a greater audience. In the hyper-saturated marketplace of the Internet where everyone on earth is selling everything on earth, a contest can sometimes provide a way to break out of the pack. All fine stuff.

On the other hand, it can drive people crazy. I’ve seen it. Perfectly good people can lose their cool when it comes to winning something. Picture the doors opening at Best Buy on Black Friday morning. Athletes doping before a race. Girl Scouts tussling over hot spots to sell cookies. Contest frenzy can make people greedy and ruthless, force attention onto the wrong goal, and cause the precipitous loss of integrity. That kind of edge may seem all Masters of the Universe, but typically it comes with selling of the soul and that gets sticky when you’re lying in bed at night wondering why you can’t sleep.

My Contest Entry: Alone on the Deep Blue Sea; click title to vote.

I’ve been involved in an interesting contest this past month, one that’s brought the weird, swirling chemistry of competition front and center. Fine Art America, one of the premier online marketplaces that hosts, prints, frames and sells the work of photographers and artists, is getting ready to do another national TV commercial and will be using photographs chosen from five of its thousands of photographers, selected via a contest called “National TV Photo Contest.” The rules allow every FAA photographer to submit up to three photos and whichever accrues 250 votes by the end of May will advance to the juried round for potential selection. Each submitting artist was given 100 votes to play/barter/trade and off we went.

250 votes. You wouldn’t think that’d be too hard, right? I’ve got over 500 Facebook friends, 700 some Twitter followers, hundreds of people on my mailing lists, and a load of fans at my Huffington Post column. How hard could it be?

Hard.

My go-to people – friends, family, certain fabulous colleagues, other artists – got right on it, votes came flying in. There was my first chunk, whoo hoo, look at me, I’m headed to the juried round! But, as it turns out, once that go-to group got to it, I wasn’t even halfway home and clearly it was time to get busy.

Next thing you discover is that, despite the number of Facebook friends anyone has, you can only scrap the top layer off and expect that group to respond to any given post. The rest are there for some reason, I’m not sure what. They rarely post, they never jump into a thread, and it seems the whole “salon/community board” aspect of the site eludes them. I guess they just quietly read what everyone else posts and that’s fine; I’m still happy to have them. They are not, however, going to take the time to vote for my damn picture.

That big email list? Did okay there but, again, only a slice. Twitter, surprisingly, yielded more than expected (which means, still, only a handful), and the rest of the gang? Some are weary of vote/donate/read my article requests. Which I get. Sometimes I am too, but I’m big on supporting friends, family, and artists so I crank up the “click” buttons regardless. A few didn’t want to sign-in and get on the FAA mailing list. I get that too, but, for God’s sake, I signed your petition, voted for your cause, and donated to Kickstarter; the least you can do is sign in and unsubscribe later! There were those who “don’t like voting for contests, you know?” (no, I don’t). Some didn’t want their private information sent to “another online company” (please, you shop online, don’t you?). Many, predictably, didn’t even respond to my various public or private pleas. But that’s okay, I know how it goes, I’ll just move on down the road to another source. Sincere and big old thanks to the many who stepped up to the voting booth. Seriously. I really appreciated it!

But there’s still that 250 votes. Gulp.

It was looking a little bleak when one of my fellow Fine Art photographers got inventive and created a Facebook group called “Get 250,” where all competing photographers were invited to join, swap votes, offer support, and do what they could to get their own votes while helping others get theirs. Eureka, a gold mine of competitive collaboration! In the couple of weeks I’ve been involved in the group, I’ve not only seen some amazing photography, but I’ve met some of the most generous, encouraging, helpful people I could hope to meet in a big-ass competition. We’re like that group of American Idol kids early on when there’s still lots of them left in the house and they all love each other!

But, I have to admit, it has been a bit of a slog. The whole “I’ve voted for you, please please vote for me” paradigm has been exhausting. Keeping track of hundreds of photographers –remembering who you voted for, who voted for you, who hasn’t yet voted for you and who should’ve voted for you but apparently isn’t — takes an Excel spreadsheet and loads of disposable hours. There are the ever-cheerful folks who don’t mind how many times you ask for a vote, gently reminding you, “I voted for you last week.” There’s the grumpier sort who gets a little testy with, “Once again, I already voted for you!” There are those who just leave petulant posts about how stupid it is that “we have to solicit votes instead of just having our work judged on merit” (odds are they won’t be getting their 250!). Others who pat backs, keep people from quitting, and put in an extra vote when able to access their spouse’s pack of 100 (anyone who signs up gets 100 votes too, so plenty of spouses’ account got put to good use!). Several in the group took time to gather and post links to people’s Facebook and Fine Art America pages so they could be “liked” and looked at, with lots of authentic compliments to follow. Frankly, as sloggy as it’s been, there’s been a bona fide air of camaraderie along the way and when someone gets to that vaunted 250 mark, genuine celebration breaks out like virtual confetti. Very nice.

But, still, in the midst of all this group-love the darker side of competition emerges, the one that seems to seep into even the highest toned contests and spoil the fun. In the case of this particular contest, it’s all about the honor system with votes at this point and each vote is gold. For the artists swapping out with each other, it’s “I vote for you, you vote for me,” and if that gets done all is happy in the kingdom. So when someone makes the effort to, say, vote for 30 other artists and only a few reciprocate, clearly Good Contest Decorum is lacking. But even worse, as some get closer to the magic number – click, click, click – their vote counts suddenly go down instead of up, meaning someone who already voted for them, and likely won a swapped vote in return, has now snuck into the barn, so to speak, and stole back the horse they just traded for good money (with intent to trade it again!), anonymously canceling their vote because the contest software allows them to. Impressive killer instinct, right? The kind of shark bite stuff that wins contests, yes? Maybe. But in my book, they suck.

But this is when the good people in the bunch stand out, people with names like Shane, Torfinn, Stav, Christal, Michael, Ivana, Maureen, Greg, Terry, Lingfai, Janie, Bob, Holly, Jorge, Tiana, Heather, Mimi, Nicole, Ashley, Fredrik, Maria, Lynette and so many more. People who spread good will, stepped up to help, wrangled more votes for people who’d lost some, posted for others on their own pages, did whatever they could to pull the stragglers up or get the late-comers up-to-speed. Good, solid, really menschy people who’ve redeemed humanity right here in the middle of this little contest that seems sorta big to all of us.

Which makes the point that contests really are a microcosm of life. A tiny version of what we go through each day, the prizes being the achievement of success, wealth, relationships, kids, love, joy, happiness, good health, etc. Like a contest, we’re each given obstacles and puzzles to solve and overcome to our benefit. How we do that, how we traverse our particular journey, is the mark of who we are as people. What level of honor and integrity we expect of ourselves, what demand for civility and compassion; how we help, sacrifice, and show empathy even while trying to get to the finish line; every bit of it speaks loudly to our character and creates our story, our brand, our humanity.

So thank you to all the great people in my life who took the time to do whatever signing-in was necessary to get some votes to me. Some of you set up extra Facebook pages, posted notices on your own pages, and got the word out to your group of contacts in any way you could. Amazing. I hope you know how much I appreciate it!

And another big thanks to all the fellow artists I’ve met in this contest. I hope we all Get 250 and advance to the next round. Despite the chaos, the greater experience was the camaraderie. I look forward to continuing the connections, however and wherever we all do. GOOD LUCK!

All photographs by Lorraine Devon Wilke; for full galleries visit LorraineDevonWilke.ArtistWebsites.com

* * * * * * * * * *

Below are just some of the links to the other artists whose work is in the contest. If you are so inclined to help a photographer out, click and take a look at some of the amazing work and vote as often as you can. And thanks…we all appreciate it!

ARTISTS:

Maureen van Leeuwen Haldeman:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3619229

Shane Bechler:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3339065

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2964481

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3021326

Jorge Maia:

1. http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3538873

2. http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3539372

3. http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3538809

Peter Mooyman:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3354382

Terry Anderson:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1363611

Greg Mimbs:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2948241

Torfinn Johannessen:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=751911

Stav Stavit (for the Tunco Donations Initiative):

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2927594

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3388941

Ivana Smiljanec:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2886632

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2886575

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2906214

Marcus Armani:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3525330

Kaiwen Luan:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3590223

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3590273

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3590321

Jani Freimann:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3460748

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1798315

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3460809

Maria Dryfhout:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3398509

Karla DeCamp:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3538977

Ann Horn:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=904344

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=358267

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1633940

Fotosas Photography:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3437495

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2342138

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2993663

Nicole Wendy Champion:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3010125

QT NCogNeeto:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2182356

Lingfai Leung:

1. Christmas Spirit at Niagara Falls:http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2955411

2. Peony Blossoms:http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2959323

3. Serenade of Love:http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3104865

Cathy Kovarik:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3199540

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2908151

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3108866

Paul J. Marto Jr:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2453018

Veikko Suikkanen:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=625996

Ashley Barrett:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3535199

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3535173

James Brunker:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=342586

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=342424

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=343075

Sandy Fisher:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3392016

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1166898

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1481768

Laurel Best:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2807360

Griffith Fotos:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3417074

Tiana McVay:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3570673

Susie Hoffpauir:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3383137

Teresa ‘Shell’ Blanton:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3288666

Jeanne Andrews:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3603701

Elizabeth Edwards:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3444729

 Katie Wing Vigil:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3267451

 Carol Lynch:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2015104

 Gina Naylor:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3107000

Kathrine Miller-Mcdowell:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=1118008

Marie Christine Belkadi:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3618610

Shelley Myke:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3356674

Lehau Pekelo-Stearns:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=2883455

John Greaves:

http://fineartamerica.com/contests/national-tv-photo-contest.html?tab=vote&artworkid=3232080

Scott Pellegrin:

http://scott-pellegrin.artistwebsites.com/index.html

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/scott-pellegrin.html

But as I’ve gotten older I’ve noticed a growing sensitivity toward all the unabashed “mother” hoopla. In this life and time of choice — of women putting off families while careers gestate, of couples making decisions not to procreate at all, of older women finding pregnancy more elusive or fruition sometimes impossible — the matter of celebrating motherhood necessitates some nuance. While, certainly, most of us can gather to celebrate our own mothers without concern, what about those whose perspective on being a parent is either bereft of experience or desire? Is greater sensitivity needed in those circumstances?

Let’s start with those who wanted children but couldn’t have them for one reason or another. CBCs, childless by circumstance. I have several people in my life who fall into this category and it’s a tender and sometimes sensitive one. The CBC will cheer, bring muffins to brunch, and spend oodles of time with the kids with nary a complaint, but when mimosas are mixed and glasses are raised “to motherhood,” a shadow of pain crosses those eyes and you can’t help but realize Mother’s Day has a bittersweet and confusing edge for some.

I have a friend who married in her early-thirties while building a successful career and when she crossed the mid-decade mark, decided it was time to start a family. What was expected to be a simple matter of “getting pregnant and having a baby” turned into a several year, very expensive, and emotionally draining project with fertility specialists, repeated inseminations, two miscarriages and even the temporary separation from her husband when the stress caused a wedge they couldn’t overcome. They ultimately got back together and are in the early stages of exploration with adoption but, as she wistfully stated, “We really wanted one of our own.” When Mother’s Day rolls around each year, she sends flowers to her out-of-state mom, avoids all brunch-centric restaurants, and hunkers down in a Cineplex to watch enough action-adventure movies to get through the day without bursting into tears.

Then there’s the childless-by-choice people (CBCP), a hearty bunch with clear minds and no regrets about eschewing the parent track. They love kids, enjoy being around them; are close with nieces, nephews, Godchildren and mentored youngsters, but they had/have no desire to make any themselves. Being social people, however, they willingly spend time with family and friends who do have children and this is where things can get sticky…hands and otherwise. They’re typically outnumbered by PWK (People With Kids) and because the majority steers the theme, the theme usually comes with all manner of happy, messy, usually very loud kids, moms chirping about schools, playgrounds and the most gifted pre-schooler, and distracted parents of either gender who can’t finish a sentence for the flickering of eyes as they follow their little rambunctians (yes, I made that up) around the yard. For even the most patient, most interested CBCP, this frivolity has its limits. They’re supportive, loving, and tolerant but, frankly, they’re not in the club and the jargon and kid-centric focus can hold interest for only so long, like listening to computer geeks discuss HTML.

But MOTHERHOOD (there’s nothing lower case about it) is all encompassing. I know. I’ve been there. And when you’re there, there’s nothing more interesting, more engaging, more emotionally fascinating than not only being a mother, but talking about it. Except to CBCPs, who can find their good sportsmanship wearing thin after the second hour of sand play and string cheese. We’ve seen the glazed eyes and restless leg tapping as childless friends edge toward the door with excuses of meeting “colleagues” at the Formosa for drinks and adult chatter. We know because we used to be them. We sometimes wish we still were. But now we’re wiping snot off the noses of children we don’t even know and, oddly, we’re always the ones with the Kleenex.

Mother’s Day was easier when we were younger; at that point our own parenthood was far enough ahead that categories weren’t yet clear. We could happily make calls and send cards to our own Moms, toast till we were tipsy, and no one had to dab eyes or prevent rolling them. We didn’t have a parental status to talk about so we didn’t have to avoid it. Mother’s Day was simply a day to celebrate our moms. As it still is, with just a little more complication.

According to one friend and hostess, Mother’s Day has become, like so many other holidays, a confused, PC sensitive event rife with wrong turns. “There is a War on Mothers’ Day!!” she declared. “It’s gotten to the point where I want to send out surveys before I invite anyone to brunch! I mean, come on! Let’s either celebrate it or not but we can’t be held responsible for triggering CBCs (she liked my acronyms) or annoying the crap out of CBCPs. I feel for them but whatever they’re going through is their issue. Everybody had a damn mother, how about we just celebrate that?” She’s an excitable sort.

And while I reject the overused war vernacular, I agree with the notion of not losing the holiday to hyper-concern. Sensitivity, certainly, but not war. Making a Mothers’ Day toast in mixed company does require a little forethought and it can’t hurt to limit the poetry to: “Here’s to you, Mom; you’re the best!” or “To all the mothers in the room, cheers!” Probably wise, however, to avoid, “And to motherhood, which is a woman’s greatest gift and most satisfying role!” For your cousin still mourning her second miscarriage, it’s likely cutting; for your friend who decided not to have children, condescending.

So let’s make this clear: there is no war, just consideration. Celebrate the matriarchs in your circle with every bell and whistle at hand, but keep the rhetoric sensitive. We can all find reason to celebrate LIFE…and that, after all, is what motherhood is all about.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I looked at my husband with trepidation and said, “We live in a Hollywood Hills Tudor — albeit a shabby one — and they won’t know we’re renters!” See, word had spread that the pack was headed north with intentions to “Molotov” the homes of “rich white people,” and while we qualified for two out of those three defining features, it was unlikely any distinction would be made for our modest bank balance. My husband pulled his old hunting rifle down from the garage shelf, the only gun in our possession, and we kept vigil at the windows while neighbors gathered to stand watch over the only way in to our little cul-de-sac. We survived that night and it was in the days to come that we discovered they’d burned within just blocks of our neighborhood.

As someone with my own tale of police brutality (Loudly Against the Language of Racism), I’d felt particular pangs while watching the infamous George Holliday video of Rodney King’s beating and, subsequently, paid close attention to the trial, emotionally invested in its outcome. It was impossible to believe the four accused cops would not be convicted of at least some charge of brutality, and the justice being called for felt valid and assured. The date was April 29, 1992, it was a beautiful spring day and from the top of our neighborhood we could see the trees blooming throughout the hills all the way to downtown LA. I felt such a rush of affection for my beautiful city, a sense of community and goodwill. Maybe it was just hopeful hormones, but I wanted to believe the place of my son’s birth could fulfill the sense of the peace and beauty it exhibited that day. I don’t remember having the TV on at the time but somehow I became aware that the King verdict was in and called my husband to join me to watch the news report. We sat on the couch waiting for what we felt would be an inevitable conviction and when it was announced that all four defendants had been exonerated without charge, we looked at each other, stunned, and both of us acknowledged: “This is not going to be good.” And it wasn’t.

The tipping point was palpable, no doubt similar to the one felt prior to the Watts Riots of 1965, and the ramp-up was one of many rough years. Los Angeles had endured a particularly corrupt era of policing during the 80′s (when my particular story happened), one that would metastasize over two decades until it finally exploded into The Rampart Scandal in 1997. But until they named it, until it was on the radar, it was all Police Gone Wild on a daily basis: racial harassment, illegal arrests, false accusations, trumped up evidence, and vicious beatings that were not caught by any camera. The subsequent rage was deep and real but it was tamped down by the fear of crushing consequences, the fear that regardless of truth, these rogue cops, powerful and so entrenched in the systemic corruption of the department at the time, would have no compunction about destroying lives to get a collar. While surely there were good, honest cops somewhere in that mix, they, apparently, weren’t the ones patrolling the mean streets…that nefarious group ran things like it was the Dark Ages, clearly with the alliance of the controversial and inflammatory Police Chief at that time, Daryl Gates.

Given that prelude, imagine the sense of vindication when some hapless videographer actually caught an incident that mirrored what so many others had experienced with no one watching! It ripped both the lid and the scab off and response from the beleaguered inner city communities most impacted was loud, as was the outrage from those who were horrified by this exposé of blatant corruption and violence. As shocking as that video was, it paradoxically incited some hope, hope that for once the justice system would look beyond race and rap sheets to see the immorality of the act and judge accordingly. But that didn’t happen…and all hell broke lose.

On that seminal day after the verdict, we watched, in unedited real time, as white trucker Reginald Denny was pulled from his truck and beaten mercilessly. I screamed at the TV, “Where the _____ are the cops??!” while unfettered thugs circled and almost killed a man on live TV. Good Samaritans saved Denny’s life, as well as those of several others caught in the melee, but the cops seemed to have disappeared in those first incendiary hours. It was mayhem in its purest form and it spread like wildfire.

We were lucky to get through that night unscathed, unlike countless others, and while the worst of it was over the first three days, the official “riot schedule” ran for six. Six days of madness. Once the authorities found their footing (balls?) and the police were back in control, curfews were set and fiercely enforced. I remember being terrified that I would go into labor at an unwieldy hour and find myself handcuffed along the freeway while hightailing it to the hospital in Santa Monica! As it was, my son was born May 9th, five days after it was over, and even then we discovered completely empty streets as we drove from Hollywood westward, eerie and post-apocalyptic, particularly as you traversed smoking neighborhoods that looked as though War had paid a visit. It had.

Much debate followed, most of it deeply heated, about why, how and what to call it. Some stuck with “riots,” others demanded the more redemptive “civil unrest”; I waffled between the two. There was no denying the racial component of what had happened, the civil rights trigger to the event, but the riots were hardly reserved for righteous anger. There was far too much footage of people of every race and color grinning at the cameras as they looted stores with bold-faced impunity, shopping carts en tow to transport loads of ill-gotten goods. The larger message of necessary reform and the rejection of racism was abundantly pertinent, but so was the horror and rage felt at the, mostly, young men in wolf-packs responsible for the deaths of 52 people and massive damage to innocent shopkeepers, home owners and commercial districts. It was excused by many as an unavoidable response to bottled-up rage, an inevitable reaction to long-running social ills, but while this was true for some, and certainly a major component at the inciting moment of the verdict, the ensuing days of death, injury, looting and continued destruction stepped way beyond the bounds and muddied the message. The incessant media coverage, in fact, allowed us to witness both the best and worst of those involved, the most compelling contrast found between Damian “Football” Williams and his soulless and sociopathic beating of Reginald Denny, juxtaposed against Denny’s noble rescuer, Bobby Green, Jr., who hoisted the critically wounded man into his truck and rushed him to the hospital through burning streets and danger to himself. Both men of color, Williams and Green, they embodied the deeply conflicted feelings that permeated the event.

I woke up the morning it was all over and looked down at my smoking city feeling such loss; loss of community, loss of common purpose and any measure of acceptance and coexistence amongst our diverse population. The city awoke, too, relieved to be alive but every bone battered and broken. And the wounds were deep. The animosity between Blacks and Koreans, in particular, was brought into full relief, uncovering a deep chasm of distrust and hate that continues today in many communities. Beautiful neighborhoods were destroyed, blighted ones as well. Countless restaurants and retail stores, including the venerable Samy’s Camera, went up in smoke. Street after street of both residential and commercial districts were so knocked down, some have not come up to this day. Many people lost their businesses, never to rebuild, while others faced crushing financial burdens to reemerge. In fact, over one billion dollars of property damage was assessed after all was said and one.

But the human toll was most egregious.  Over 2500 injuries, some severe, and, most horrifically, 53 people lost their lives.

The LA Weekly has a good piece out, Then & Now: Images from the Same Spot as the LA Riots, 20 Years Later, which offers details and compelling comparative photos of neighborhoods and places, then and now. It’s both education and hopeful.  Wikipedia’s 1992 Los Angeles Riots page does a good job of laying out the timeline and naming the players. There are countless other articles; it’s a big story that will be analyzed and dissected throughout history.

My personal view is through the prism of my son’s birth (always to be connected to the event), my husband’s protectiveness; the coming together of people and neighborhoods in solidarity and defense, and the sad dispelling of hope about racial harmony in our city, at least then; is it better now? Los Angeles is a complex and beautiful metropolis that encompasses a staggering diversity of people, places, and beliefs. Civil unrest seems never too far from the radar, as hate and bigotry continue to brew in certain lower contingents of mankind, here and everywhere, but hope recovers and remains. Hope that we have more compassion for each other, hope that our police department has excised its bad apples. We’ve found unexpected outlets for our anger (can you imagine Twitter and Facebook after the Rodney King tape was revealed?!), we have effective forums and legal recourse in which to properly expose corruption and discrimination, and hopefully we’ve recovered with a sharp, unvarnished awareness that turning a blind eye to any injustice will surely destroy our vision.

Photo credit: LAWeeklyblog

They’d seen him there before, though they didn’t know who he was or where he came from. He was always hustling one thing or another, always with his broad, beige cowboy hat, and his entreaties to women passing on the plaza captured the terse attention of shopkeepers as his voice got louder and his comments more ribald. There were rumors of an alley scuffle at some point but by and large he was ignored as a buffoon. Eduardo and Carlos had never actually spoken to him..until that day.

Eduardo met Carlos at the wall every day after work as they both waited for the bus. With his usual bag of loaves in hand, looking forward to his wife’s good meal after a long day at the office, he always enjoyed the time with his ebullient friend who never failed to entertain with anecdotes of the people he encountered while slapping tickets onto wayward cars. Carlos enjoyed his work – it kept him in the sunlight and fresh air – but once out of uniform and headed home, he often wished he did something more meaningful, like Eduardo, who edited scientific texts at the local university. But it paid the bills and he did enjoy the scenery.

As they waited that day for the late bus, the usual stories were exchanged. Eduardo’s was a short, dry retelling of the day’s unspectacular events. Carlos had a more compelling tale of an excitable girl with an orange bag who almost throttled him for dispensing a ticket after she’d parked with two wheels on the curb and a bumper jammed into a trash bin. Eduardo roared, secretly jealous of Carlo’s more picturesque life, but as they concluded their debrief both took note of the Cowboy hovering nearby, too close and clearly eavesdropping on their conversation. Neither were pleased.

“Hey,” Carlos, always more direct, snapped in Cowboy’s direction, “You got something to say?”

Cowboy smiled that big, obsequious grin that seemed a permanent feature of his face and slid closer to the men. Before they could say anything, he pulled out a wallet pack and out tumbled a series of cards too small for Carlos and Eduardo to discern from their tense perch feet away.  With an enigmatic expression, the Cowboy turned to the wary men and said: “For five bucks, wouldn’t you like to own a set of these photo cards that show ALL of this year’s Miss X-Rated Rodeo Star? I mean, this girl can RIDE!“**

** The winning line chosen from all the comments offered was submitted by Susan Morgenstern, top winner in the category! 

The Runner Up Category:

“I printed these naked pictures of your wives off the Internet.” Courtesy of Hoogie Charles.

“Hey, do either of you fellas know where I can cash in this winning lottery ticket?” Courtesy of Lisa Nosbisch, friend of Maureen Van Leeuwen Haldeman.

“I have the 1909 Honus Wagner card. Worth a cool 1.2 million. I ain’t shitting ya. Won it off of Mrs. Wayne Gretzky during our Thursday night poker game.” Courtesy of Robert Chancey.

Special Mention:

To David Duplessis who contributed a beautifully written paragraph that you can find in the comments below.

THANKS EVERYONE! GREAT FUN AND MORE TO COME!!

* * * * * *

To view this and other photos in the Gallery, go to Street Photography Artwork at my site at Fine Art America.

www.lorrainedevonwilke.com

Birthdays. The most wonderful day of the year for children, so excited to be that one year older. Proud of it, flashing the adjusted number of fingers, eager to announce to the world that, “I’m free!!” as if turning three on that particular day is the greatest feat to possibly be achieved.

Because it is. It means you’re closer to being BIG (remember when getting big was all the rage??). And it comes with all the hoopla of celebration: cake, candles, gifts, parties, everyone paying attention to you in a way they don’t on any other day of the year. We love our birthdays; they’re ours and ours alone and nothing can ever change that.

Except having LOTS of them. Yeah. Lotsa birthdays. Becomes a tad less “whoo hoo” after a while, this adjusted number thing, a little less exuberant. Oh sure, “better than the alternative” remains the go-to assuagement but, really, how joyful is that reminder? Face it, you’re getting older. You’re talking about gluten, befuddled by your phone, complaining every time Facebook changes its template. You’re….older.

And those decade-change birthdays, my God, let’s talk about those!! Those “big ones.” When you’re younger, those are joyfully plate-shifting birthdays. My son is turning 20 this next birthday (seriously??) and we all remember the stellar coolness of, finally, being out of our teens…very exciting. For me, turning 30 was still cool. It came with a sense that I was actually a grown-up. I took to blithely announcing it to everyone at the bar where I was working at the time, ready to wrap the mantle of adulthood firmly round my very padded shoulders. But in a surely-soon-to-be-famous band at the time, I was sternly admonished by my boyfriend/band leader to keep that damn number to myself; reminded that being 30 and still on the ramp-up to a record deal was not even remotely cool. I quieted down but remained secretly thrilled by the whole thing.

Until 40. Turning 40 was a turning point, literally. You know how you go in on those commercial auditions and you have to fill out that form? The one that – though by law can’t ask your age – does require that you put yourself in an age bracket:  -40 or +40. What could be more obvious? You had to “out” yourself, admit you were either worthy of consideration for the young mother hawking soap or age yourself out of the running altogether. I always marked -40 because I did, at the time, appear to be so, but that distinction made clear the Rubicon one was crossing at that particular decade in the acting world and, at the time, it made me shudder.

But what candle could that hold to the Bizarro World of the Fifth Decade. Now there’s a club I still, to this day, cannot fathom being a member of. Seriously, I mean it, how did that happen? Fifties is when you start wearing dance pants from Lane Bryant and those fun, flowery tops found in the Target “women’s” section (odd how larger women get the “women’s” label…what are the rest of the gender, “Lesser Women”??). You let your gray grow out and get that bubble cut favored by matrons the world over. You start saying “gal” and referring to people as “being a hoot.” You spend time discussing bowel movements and what meds you’re on, you stop going to rock clubs with the excuse that “we’re geezers, probably in bed watching Downton Abbey by the time you’re on stage” (this would be 9:00!), and you really do start yelling at kids to stay off your lawn. Nope, not me, nuh uh, ain’t gonna do it.

So I didn’t. I found my own way to be a member of the decade and it’s been good. My energy hasn’t flagged, I’m vigilant about staying healthy (remember those Funk Brothers-accompanied power walks?), I refuse to join AARP (at least until I actually retire from something), and rock & roll remains decidedly doable. Oh sure, those cute round cheeks seen in early childhood photos are making their inexorable slide toward gravity and one has to watch the snack foods more closely, but I’m still…me.

We’ll see how well I do at the next decade change. Let’s not rush it.

For now, I’m celebrating. Celebrating the acknowledgement of birth, life lived, the continuing quest to embrace change and remain fiercely dedicated to who I am and what gives my life purpose. I’m having lunch with the woman who brought me into this world, dinner with the man with whom I’m sharing the journey, sweet bookends that have particular meaning. That soon-to-be 20-year old boy (man?) called with warm words, cards have arrived, and the thoughtful wishes of Facebook friends who, for that moment in which they sent a birthday wish to my page, were thinking of me. That’s a lot of positive well-wishing coming my way and I’m grateful (never believe that Facebook is a waste of time).

What they don’t really tell you about getting older…at least for me? That there’s an ease to it, the clichéd but so truthful accrual of wisdom. A certain letting go of that youthful panic about where you’re going and the rush to get there so you can then BE that for the second you get before you have to move on even faster and higher and harder to get to the next level expected and then — phew…makes me tired just thinking about it! I’m grateful I’ve now gotten SO old, so far past those arbitrary age goals, that the inevitable surrender to what is rather than what was supposed to be gives me a tremendous sense of freedom. The knowledge that it isn’t all carved in stone and sometimes what you expected wasn’t necessarily the best choice anyway. Mostly you find that you still have choices. That’s the unexpected revelation…to know your life still has some sparkling, blank pages you get to fill in any way you choose. It’s different at this age, less attended to by the outside world, perhaps, but it’s still the adventure you imagined at 20 when your whole life was ahead.

Because your whole life still is ahead. It’s all yours and it still requires your hopes, dreams, optimism, confidence and commitment. And damn if I’m not going to keep at it with the same verve that’s accompanied me throughout this journey.

So don’t count on any floral muumuus. I ain’t gonna get a bubble cut, I’ll still wear black jeans even when I’m walking with my granddaughter, and regardless of where my cheeks ultimately land, know I’ll be smiling. Because I’m still kicking – still capable of kicking – and there’s cake in my future. What could be better than that?  It’s my day, mine alone, and it’s going to be grand!

Thank you all for the wonderful, continuing, and very appreciated birthday wishes!

With that legacy as background, my mother never failed to turn even the slightest of holidays into a mad-capped celebration complete with colored streamers, construction paper decorations, and party foods forbidden on most any other day. We even made note of Chisholm Trail Day on October 23rd and I doubt if there are many other families who took partying quite that hearty!

But given her Irish blood (which was, in fact, mixed with the German ancestry of her father who lost favor upon abandoning his children at an early age), you can only imagine the household hullabaloo surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. Wearing green wasn’t just suggested; it was mandatory. My mother took great offense, in fact, if you didn’t give this tradition your sartorial consideration…a point of great contention as we hit our teenage years and the requisite eye-rolling strain that followed such requirements! But, certainly when we were young, the revelry of the day was met with great enthusiasm, both at our Catholic school with its many Irish nuns and deep devotion to a Saint who actually managed to wrangle his own holiday, and later at home where the party was on before school was even finished. Much was made of both the secular and sacred aspects of the celebration and even the dreaded evening dinner of corned beef and cabbage was endured in exchange for green sweets, green drinks and a very jolly mother in green who set the tone and the party in motion. She was glorious at those times and those times are good and happy memories.

As I got farther away from my Catholic roots and less concerned with what it is one celebrates on any given saint’s day much less St. Patrick’s, it was curious to me how attached to both the legend and the holiday most Americans are. Once it became less a delightful family event and more a co-opted excuse to party like it was 1903 (the year Saint Patrick’s Day became an official public holiday in Ireland), I found myself almost a contrarian. The “everybody’s Irish!” exaltation and the requisite pinching of those who dared eschew green became as eye-rolling to my young adult self as they’d been in high school. Imagine the irony, then, when I got a job in my late 20’s working at one of the premiere Irish pubs in Los Angeles, Molly Malone’s, where the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day was both long and legendary. That one day of my work year was more exhausting than the rest combined and always much more fun for my customers than for me but, always, at some point in the day, the ringing of sweet childhood memories would kick in and I’d find a moment to revel – if from a healthy and unsoddened distance – in my participatory and bona fide Irishness. 

When my own son began his yearly celebrations via the teachers at school who enjoyed any reason to step out of the ordinary day, I once again couldn’t help but be reminded of my mother, who always seemed most alive when she was transforming our house into party town, exuding the sparkling, cheerful woman we most adored. As I see her now in her silly green hat and watch her enjoy the decorations that are not much better than the ones we made all those many years ago, I’m delighted to knows she’s in a place that holds this Irish Catholic tradition dear…because she still is that Irish party girl!

 And I am still her child who is grateful she taught me how much fun it is to celebrate simply but with verve. I plan to do so today, with a quiet dinner and a satisfying few hours with a movie I’ve been wanting to see. She’ll likely be dancing in her chair to some frolicking Irish ditty. We’re both going to have a good time. Hope you do too.

 Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

All photographs courtesy of Lorraine Devon Wilke.

With the Sturm und Drang that punctuates too much in the world today, it’s sometimes hard to focus on the brighter, more uplifting, elements of life; those moments that remind you of good people, the notion that someone’s paying attention, the simple hope that a little dream long held might still, inexplicably and unexpectedly, come true. Given that systemic cynicism that attempts to hijack our time and ponderings, I wanted to post this addendum as a reminder that moments of thrill and surprise can happen from time to time.

If you haven’t already read the original story, please do and then come back to this…it will make much more sense that way: Enough With Politics… I Want To Sing With the Funk Brothers!

Hummm-hum-humm (I’m humming as you get caught up with the story…but it is a Motown song I’m humming.).

OK, done? Great. So anyway, I wrote the story mainly because, as noted, I’m inspired by these guys and the music they’ve made and any chance I get to throw a little attention their way, I’m gonna do it. I mean, just yesterday I was listening to “Standing in the Shadows of Love” as loudly as my Ipod and ears could handle and as I bopped down the street like an aging Lada Edmund Jr. in Nikes and a sweatband, I was again in full thrall of the funk that is the Funk Brothers (and tell me, besides my sister Mary, how many of you can say you remember Lada Edmund, Jr.?:)

I posted the story here on Rock+Paper+Music, as well as my column at the Huffington Post (HuffingtonPost.com/Lorraine-Devon-Wilke/Funk-Brothers) where, regardless of my wish that my own blog garnered such numbers, I clearly get more play. And lo and behold, about three days after it posted there – this story that not only extolled the Brothers but went on to declare my Bucket List wish to sing with them – came this message on the comment board:

Lorraine-my name is David Spero and I have managed the Funk Brothers for years. I promise that the next time they play the west coast you WILL sing with them! 

Meet us at the soundcheck for a trial run, and if you have ‘the goods’ we’ll invite you up at the show as well. 

Pause for a moment of awed silence.

You can imagine my reaction. Message in a bottle.

David Spero is a longtime and highly respected manager and all-around music entrepreneur who has worked with a staggering list of bands and musicians we’ve all listened to over the years. Still very active in the music world, his attachment to the Funk Brothers somehow led him to my article and his unexpected and smile-inducing comment. He later contacted me via my website and we were able to have a more in-depth conversation about my background, his, mutual people we knew, etc., and it was a delightful conversation left with this:

Lorraine…thanks for bringing the Funks to so many people’s attention! That alone gets you a shot on stage…but then when I realized you can really sing, well…let’s fill that bucket. We may be doing (a gig) in April in LA…when it’s finalized I’ll let you know. The gigs are far and few between, the guys all have health issues now, so this would be the best shot. It is so appreciated what you did for them…the guys loved it!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, made my day, week, month, year….knowing “the guys loved it.”  Seriously, it does not get much better than that.

So I’ll keep my fingers crossed that the potential LA gig in April will include my humble and appreciative participation but, for this moment, Mr. Spero’s reaching out made clear that life can still surprise me. That’s really nice to know. Almost as nice as picturing the venerable old Brothers reading my piece and smiling.

More later…(but I tell ya, I’m warming up those vocal cords!).

Funk Brothers album cover: courtesy of The Funk Store

The Funk Brothers

Don’t know who they are? Yeah…too many people don’t. Let’s see what we can do to remedy that.

I do a fairly vigorous power walk most days of the week and I typically have my Ipod going as a much needed pacer. I’ve put together a playlist for this purpose that is quite impressive; mostly dance, funk, and R&B, all with a wide range of pulsating, bass heavy beats to keep me going when I’d rather sit down and sip Snapple. Much of what comprises this playlist is Motown, glorious Motown; older, newer and all of it expertly and artfully played by the amazing Funk Brothers. Every time I listen to this collection that motivates me no matter how I’m feeling or what dusty thoughts are roiling through my head, I get a rush of appreciation and think to myself: “I love these guys!”…which is immediately followed by, “I want to sing with the Funk Brothers!” As I pound my way up the next incline I ponder all the many ways in which I can make that happen.

I have no clue. Really, none. I can’t even seem to get a damn local band to behave properly on my behalf (It’s Only Rock & Roll But, Damn...) so what on earth chance do I have with the vaunted Funk Bros?

Really, none.

But regardless, this meditation keeps me going during the more trying portions of my walk and always leads to the impulse that follows: to shine a little light on these musicians who’ve kept me company since childhood and are still doing their part to move me in all the ways I can be moved, particularly as I dance-walk to their beat in a quest to stave off encroaching decrepitude (talk about longtime companions!).

So shine a little light I will.

There was an incredible and very illuminating documentary that came out about ten years ago called Standing in the Shadows of Motown, a film that told the story of the Funk Brothers, that cadre of expert, journeymen musicians who created the iconic and electrifying sound that became known as “the Motown Sound.” This from their website:

With the tumultuous sixties as a backdrop, Motown’s unsung heroes take the viewer on a compelling journey in time as they trace the evolution of The Motown Sound from its origins in Detroit to its demise in Los Angeles during the seventies. Through the eyes of the riveting characters who ruled Hitsville’s studio by day and the club scene of Detroit by night, we enter a world of unparalleled soul and emotion as the Funk Brothers revisit the sites of their musical roots, triumphs, and eventual heartbreak.

The first weekend the movie was out I sat in a huge Hollywood theater with my friend Tina, tapping my foot to the beat of a song that was already playing in my head, and as the lights came down and that pulsating riff from “Standing in the Shadows of Love” filled the room, the rush was overwhelming as we all danced in our seats in communal exhilaration. But beyond incomparable music, the film is a brilliant and touching story about these unsung musicians who made their unforgettable contribution for little money and less recognition, essentially kept in the background until…well, until this film came out. You know that inimitable tambourine heard in most Motown songs? The Funk Brothers. The particular drum beat, the signature bass lines and those guitar riffs you’d know in your sleep? Yep, the Funk Brothers. I want you to read this description of the film on Amazon.com (which I’ve linked here for your convenient ordering!):

Detroit, Michigan, 1959. Berry Gordy gathers the best musicians from the city’s thriving jazz and blues scene for his new record company: Motown. For the next 14 years these players are the heartbeat on “My Girl,” “Baby Love,” “Ooo Baby Baby,” “Bernadette,” “I Was Made To Love Her,” “I Heard It Through The Grapevine,” “Dancing In The Street,” and every other hit from Motown’s Detroit era. By the end of their phenomenal run, the unheralded group of musicians plays on more Number One hits than the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, and The Beatles combined, making them the greatest hit machine in the history of popular music. They call themselves the Funk Brothers. But no one knows their names…this is their story.

And it’s a killer story. Truly. I’ve watched the film countless times, gifted the DVD to friends and family who share a passion for this seminal chapter in music; appreciated all the fine performances of the contemporary artists who appear in the film, but mostly I hold an enduring Standing Ovation for these talented, humble and underappreciated men.

And did I mention I want to sing with them?

The wonderful Joan Osborne performed in the film and did a stellar job as the blue-eyed (brown-eyed?) soul songstress doing proud justice to those kickass R&B classics. I have nothing but fandom for her as an artist and think her version of “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” is definitive and chill inducing. But that was a while ago, Joan, and no begrudging your heartfelt and memorable contribution, this really is one of those Bucket Listy things I’ve kept afloat since then and we all know time’s a’flyin’ so forgive the nudge from a sister singer and please clear the stage!

Ack…I don’t mean that, Joan. In fact, let me know when you’re on any stage in my part of the world and I’ll be one of the fans out there mouthing the words to all your songs.

And maybe direct appeal is a better approach anyway.

Um, Funk Brothers…may I call you Funk Brothers? If you’re coming out to the West Coast anytime soon and you’d like to mix it up with a little local talent, my schedule’s pretty open these days so don’t hesitate to get in touch. I’m a quick study – hell, know most of your songs already – and just got my voice all in shape for a gig that fell through so I’m good to go. And say, I’ll even fly out to wherever you are; Virgin America just posted some cheap flights and I’ve got plenty of points to throw around. I’m not famous, I’m not that young (but you appreciate that, right?) and it’s unlikely most of my ’80′s mailing list would overcome their stated geezerdom to get out of the house for a gig. But I’ve still got a few fans who are mobile, I’ve developed some newer, younger ones (which is convenient when you need to fill seats past a 9:30 bedtime), I’m told I’ve still got some hip quotient left, and would social-media this baby right into the….well, I’ll just do what I can, promise.

Until then, know you’ve got a fan and booster out here who’s grateful for the music that has had me dancing my entire life, from childhood right up to the other day when that last mile felt insurmountable until “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” kicked in and you did just that – kept me hangin’ on.

So, thanks, Funk Brothers, seriously. And keep in mind that I’d be happy to bring mixed nuts or something sweet to rehearsal…

Photography credits: 

The Funk Brothers & Stevie Wonder and the Funk Brothers; artist unknown, from the website: www.SoulWalking.co.uk 

Gents in the red jackets: artist unknown, from Reuters Editorial piece

Movie poster: TheFunkStore.com

Joan Osborne: www.sueauclairpromotions.com

That’s the one.

Which is understandable.

Because there’s just nothing quite like it, singing. That physical, visceral explosion of sound and emotion that transforms the human body into a conduit for something passionate, aural, and chill producing. An art form that’s truly as endorphin rushing as good exercise, the perfect roller coaster, great sex and full participation in The Sound of Music Sing Alongs (which has to be a high point for pretty much anyone).

Beyond just the act of singing is the performance of it. That’s a whole other layer of experience that’s not only hard to beat, but somewhere near 11 on the scale of 10 when it comes to classic wish fulfillment. Standing onstage pouring heart and soul into a microphone to the beat of a drum and the fierce, pounding intensity of a band in motion does rate high on enchantment, whether it’s singing Etta James at a B.B. King’s club, doing a stripped down version of your original set at the Good Hurt, or crooning 40 minutes of “Let’s Stay Together” for the money dance at a local wedding. I, for one, consider my abilities in the form a worthy tradeoff  for missing out on high cheek bones and a sense of direction.

I started this article about seven months ago; last summer, after a long-time friend and musical collaborator who I’d not seen in a long time got in touch to invite me to sing with his band. This was a deep and tremendous boon; it’d been years and I feared that part of my identity had abandoned me altogether. So when I got the call, excited and anticipatory, I was inspired to write about it, feeling as though a new/old chapter had opened in my life which surely merited some prose. But for some reason I put the celebration on hold back then; don’t know why. Prescient, perhaps?

But some of you have asked recently, “Hey, what happened to your band?” so I decided to finally wrap up the article in response. Besides, I like stories to have an ending. So read on, all questions will be answered.

As noted in Chick Singer, Part 1, my life as a vocalist began with a gentle foray into folk music, then bum-rushed its way to rock & roll and blues for pretty much the rest of the ride. While certainly the 80′s, part of the 90′s and a good chunk of the early 2000′s remained focused on this “calling” and the attendant ambition wrought by my laser-focus on being a successful singer/songwriter (more on that journey in later chapters), in the last five years – a tad weary and out of options – I packed up my microphones, therapied through the subsequent five stages of grief and got on with the rest of my life.

For those who’d suggest, “Couldn’t you keep doing it even as a fun hobby?” – YES. I could. And here’s what happened as I went through months of auditions simply trying to find a guitar player (damn me for not learning to play well enough to ever want me to play with me!):

1. “Love your music but I don’t want to actually play songs, I’d rather just jam.” Hello, you had my CD, those were songs.

2. “Wow, you’re great but I was hoping for something a little more developed.” Remember when I told you it was just me?

3. “So how likely do you think it is that you’ll be getting a record deal?” Not. Dealbreaker?

4. “I only work in the West LA area.” Then why are you here?

5. “How old are you?” Nope, not goin’ there.

6. “If you sang on a Jefferson Starship album, wow…you’ve been around a while!” Yep…see #5.

7. “I bet you were hot in the 80′s.” No comment.

8. “You’ve got a great bluesy thing goin’ but no one wants that anymore.” I hate you.

9. “I only work with people I can do a full chart on before we work together.” If you mean astrology as opposed to a music, pay for your Starbucks and take a hike. (It was the astrology kind.)

I could go on and on. Seriously. On and effing on. If you put it in a movie they’d say you were flogging cliches but it was like one of those bad audition montages, just without the quick-cuts and perky soundtrack. I think it was after #9 that I finally snapped and took the road less traveled. Until I got that call from my friend last June.

What followed was a buzz of identity integration, as if all my parts were once again coming together to form the full, cogent ME. Yes, I am a writer, a photographer, a mother, wife, sibling, and friend but I am also a singer and, hallelujah, get the band bag down, the microphones dusted, the stand out from behind the luggage and those vocal exercises crackin’ tout suite…we’re in a band, sister!

I felt more excited than I had in a while, particularly to be working with a dear, old friend who knew me – my chops, my style, my taste in music, my work ethic – as well as knew the stated criteria: great players, great tunes, sane people and no agendas. I figured if I’m going to bother at this wizened stage of my life, with ambition tempered and a goal to simply experience the pleasure of performance, it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be fun. No other reason to do it. He agreed and we got started.

I spent a month whipping my voice into shape and, let me tell you, it was exhilarating to discover it was still there…one never presumes. Over the next four months, I spent hours researching material, printing lyric sheets, learning songs, driving the 50 mile round-trip to rehearsal and back, gelling beautifully with my new “band of boys” and getting nothing but positive feedback. And it was FUN!! At a time when writing demanded solitude, work required pavement pounding, and family life could be challenging (see Empty Nest Pt. 3: See You In November!, Cowboy Strong and Poetry Sweet…Love In the Age of MTBI & The Mother Of My Reinvention), there was something basic and pure in this endeavor; I was singing, hanging out with musicians and eating mixed nuts…how cool is that?

But like any good story there had to be a plot twist, an inciting incident. And there was. Just as we finally got four sets worth of classic and hand-picked blues/R&B/jazz/rock material worked up, including one of my own tunes with more to come (per a request from my band leader buddy), there was a short break in the momentum. The drummer had to move, work schedules got challenged, and the keyboard player quit. “No worries,” my buddy assured, “Everyone else is still onboard and I’ll just find someone to replace him.” Before long he had a new guitarist in line to replace the keyboard player, a guy who apparently sang really well, too (“you guys’ll sound GREAT together!”), the buzz resurfaced, the keyboard player even re-emerged and, yippee, let’s get this new guy worked in and the party started!

That was October. And then came the the third act.

By December, no rehearsal had forth come. After repeated emails, texts, a few phone conversations (in which I was always assured things were still on track), and despite the unfortunate hiatus, I kept the faith…with obvious reservations. During my last phone call my buddy promised: “I’ll get a group email out to get this going again.” OK, great… nice holiday gift to look forward to, right? It never happened. Merry freakin’ Christmas.

2012 arrived and on one bright sunny day I got an email from my buddy: “I finally had a discussion with the boys in the band and the general  consensus was unhappiness with the musical direction that the project had taken on.” He went on to explain that originally they’d been more jazz/funk oriented and when I came in the direction shifted to more blues/rock. And though he still thought I was “a soulful singer and hope to work with you again in the studio or live,” no mention was made of the fact that he’d approved every song submitted, that no one indicated unhappiness with anything, no one had pushed for different material and not a mention was made of simply adding more jazz/funk into the mix (which he knew I could cover with aplomb). It appeared, for whatever reason and without preamble, I’d been summarily voted off the island.

When two of the players later contacted me it was made clear, independently and by both, that neither had been involved with any consensus or discussion; they were as surprised as I was. So it seems this was all on my buddy. Or not. Who knows? Smoke was being blown somewhere, I didn’t know where or from what direction, but I did know I had a #10 to add to the list:

10. “Yeah, you’re great and we’ve been friends for a billion years but I found a jazz singer I like better/I don’t want to do any blues/I would rather work with a guy singer/I’m too much of a chicken shit to be honest/Yes, I wasted your time/ oops, there goes the bus I’m throwing you under, thanks…bye!”

Yep. #10 takes the cake.

So that is my latest foray into rock & roll. Am I feeling a little bruised? A little sorry for myself? Yeah, a little. I didn’t deserve that. I’m a kick-ass singer, I showed up with a full plate of goods, I laughed at their jokes even when they were stupid, I was happy to carry equipment to the curb, I love swear words, I even brought mixed nuts. I know how to be a good Chick Singer.

But I tend to believe every story has a point, regardless of the tale. Even a sad and sorry debacle such as this comes with the gift of at least some learning. And in the good column?

1. My voice is still there. That was precious to discover. For whatever reason. Future reference. A sense of still having something I cherish. Whatever, it was good to know. I slay ‘em in the shower.

2. I was reminded of how much damn fun it is being in a good band with great players. No better fun…seriously.

3. I got to sing some of my favorite songs during rehearsals and that was an absolute blast. The audience was implied.

4. I can survive another creative disappointment. Good to know, particularly since that skill was hard-won. I recovered back then and I did not regress now. Look at me, Mommy, I’m all growed up!

So the moral of the story is: It’s life. And life is unpredictable. People can disappoint you. Projects can involve emotional whiplash. Not every dream comes true. There are some mountains high enough. I’m not fond of bad communicators. Rock & roll can still kick my ass. Harmony is like good frosting. The drummer makes the band. Mixed nuts are a fine snack.

And I’m doing OK…really. Thanks for asking.

All photographs courtesy of Lorraine Devon Wilke

Last year I did a Pros & Cons of 2010 piece to wrap things up and though I had originally planned to do a similar analysis for 2011, I find I’m less inspired to list and more interested in expressing some gratitude at this particular chapter change.

I look around my life and it’s clear that, despite certain lackings and misfortunes (those inevitable turns that come at one point or another in everyone’s life), I clearly have so much to be grateful for. It’s no cliché; it’s a reality I would be remiss to ignore. There are the obvious things – family, health, friends, career upticks, HBO – but there are also the less obvious things, personal to each one of us. The things that can often go unnoticed or seem mundane but have a way of striking a chord that we, in particular, hear. I want to talk about one of mine:

All of you out there who were paying attention…that’s what I’m grateful for.

You know who you are. You’re the ones who read and commented on my articles, took the time to join a Facebook thread, “liked” what I requested to have “liked,” and voted when asked (or at least tried!). You visited sites and links I recommended and linked my work to your own pages. You responded to my emails, messages and tweets, acknowledged my promotional mailings, even passed them on to others with your own recommendations. Some of you bought my photographs, downloaded or purchased my CD, sent letters to Rachael Maddow touting my way with an opinion. One of you got an agent to read my as-yet-unpublished novel, another Twittered my photography site all over the place; some linked my blog or Huff Po column to their own websites, put an interview on their page, or used my photographs for their new Facebook banner. These are not small things to me…

…because that kind of consideration and attention cannot to be taken for granted. I have hundreds of people listed as Facebook friends, more on my mailing list, still others on LinkedIn, Twitter, BranchOut, etc., but you, pictured here, are the consistent, dependable, always vibrant, engaged and very active group who gets and stays involved in a connection of some kind with my life. Thank you…. it’s rare and notable. Because though we have never had more ways to communicate than we do currently, the actual art and craft of good communication requires the same consideration and cultivation as any meaningful skill. And it is, even in this era of data overload and instant access, one that is oddly and persistently lacking.

Think about how hard it used to be to connect: cave hieroglyphics, smoke signals, Morse Code, the Pony Express, those across-the-Atlantic letters from John Adams that took most of the year to get to his wife. People could go months and years not hearing from someone and be grateful for the tidings sent by way of a passing stranger. They somehow managed to live and share love and life without the glut of communication tools we have now and while they certainly couldn’t have known what they were missing, what would they think about the cavalier way in which so many deal with their own correspondence, particularly when it’s now so easy to stay in touch?

It takes only seconds to text, email, comment, “like,” share, or visit, and when you can do any or all of those at any time of the day or night that’s convenient to you (even if you are the Busiest Person in the Entire World as so many bad communicators claim), why is it that so many are so bad at it?

It’s a lack of prioritizing, good manners, consideration or “Communication Empathy” (that awareness of how crappy it feels when people ignore, dismiss, forget or simply never engage in any meaningful communication with you). Fact is, you can always find enough time if you want to, if you can externalize enough to tap into Communication Empathy and realize just how important it is. Being a thoughtful communicator shows you comprehend the connective power of even the most minor communication (a Tweet can make the world go ’round if it’s the right Tweet!). “If you want to” is the key. It’s how you prioritize your time and your correspondence choices…all of you here have clearly figured that out.

While we’re all so busy promoting our shows, CDs, sites, articles, families, books and businesses, it’s the thoughtful ones who also pay attention to what others are doing, selling, and promoting. If I were to describe the bane of my life (well, at least one of them!), I would have to say it’s those who don’t return emails, who don’t follow through, who don’t show up on time…or at all. Those who make promises they don’t keep. Who start a collaboration then disappear without a trace. Those who never (or seldom) participate, purchase, enjoy, attend, talk about, or share the work of others. Those who are “too busy,” too self-focused, too ME to see…you.

But that doesn’t apply to any of you pictured here. Like I said, you’ve got it figured out. You’re that special breed who does reach out, in all the ways that connect people, the ways that create good-will and make us each feel as if we’re part of something; a village, a circle of wagons, even just a group of Facebook friends. It’s not a waste of time, it’s not just mindless online chatter; it’s meaningful, however distant and cyber, however frivolous it may seem at times. Frankly, many of you, some of whom I rarely see, others I have never even met, have personally shown me more support, interest, affection and consideration than many closer, more intimate people in my life.

So that’s what I’m grateful for today. For those of you who were paying attention. For those of you who will keep paying attention. It’s an incredible gift. Thank you.

P.S. And if I left anybody out who should be in these collages, forgive me. Send me a note and I’ll be sure to add you to the page!

Photography credits:

Tree in Dumpster originally published @ www.kenpierpont.com

Collages created by Lorraine Devon Wilke