Tuesday, October 25, 2022

 Hi everyone! I have an auction running until Friday (Oct 28) on Instagram for this archival print. 100% of proceeds will go to the organization of your choice...coral reef or wildfire relief. You just put a bid in the comments (and can DM me with questions). Thanks so much in advance if you check it out! 


Sunday, October 23, 2022

 Hi everyone, starting tonight at midnight through Oct 28 on Instagram I will once again be participating in the #awetober children's book artists auction. 100% of all proceeds go to the fundraiser of your choice...individual California wildfire or coral reef organizations. There are directions how to donate when the auction goes live. (You just leave a bid in the comments.) I am auctioning an archival print of this piece called "A Sky Full of Magic." There are also several other fabulous artists auctions going on this week and all month...I'm honored to be included. If you are interested, please stop by any and all of these auctions under the #awetober hashtag. My auction will be under @tcandyart. Thank you and have a great week!

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

The Train

There is a beautiful Andrew Wyeth painting called, "Chambered Nautilus" of a woman sitting up in bed staring out a window. For fun, I channeled that image for an illustration of a little girl looking out as the train passed by. That was my childhood bedroom. The Long Island Railroad Port Washington line was eye level with my window.

That sounds so quirky now. But it was so fun then.

I would hide as I changed in the morning, just in case the Manhattan commuters looked in. And although I barely heard the roaring engine, friends would bolt up when they slept over. My father told any little kids visiting that he had his own set of electric trains. He ushered them to the backyard. "I just turned on my train! Here it comes!"

Since it was up on a high wall, the train's guard railings were perfect height to attach a basketball hoop. It ensured many years of tournaments for my brothers and their friends. When I became of age, I would shoot out there for hours, until the basketball inevitably bounced up onto the tracks. The ladder reclaimed from our old picket fence was pretty scary, so I usually opted to wait until my brother Michael got home to get the ball. He knew how to scale the wall with a running start.

The sound of the train on Christmas morning was extremely special. It meant it was time to walk down the block and greet Grandma and Uncle Jimmy at the station for their visit.

Those trains were such a deep part of our neighborhood little gang of friends. We waved at them, called up to the passengers, and sang at the top of our lungs if one was approaching. One time we heard unusually loud honking and the train stopped abruptly right above us. The conductor got out and looked down on the tracks, so we had a good view of him from below. We giddily called up to him, but he had a pained expression on his face. He got back in, and slowly reversed the train. Someone had committed suicide.

As we got older, the train took on a whole other challenge: how late we could leave our house and still make it. Some of my siblings left with enough time to walk down the block for their various jobs, but Michael ran for it. We would leave the house at the same time. I made a left, running to the city bus for high school. Michael made a right, sprinting to the train in his suit. Years later it was my turn to do the train sprint when I went to college in Manhattan. I could do the long block, full art supplies in tow, but the the huge set of stairs up to the platform were a killer. I missed my train more times than I care to admit.

There were a childhood full of train rides: to Grandma’s house, parades, the circus, first dates in high school, concerts, late late night dancing, and finally to become one of those Manhattan commuters. My first apartment after I got married was on that same LIRR line, just one more stop east. My father knew which train I took in the morning, and he would sometimes sit out in the backyard holding up a homemade sign for me. "Hello, Patti!"

 That Wyeth inspired illustration captures one moment and a lifetime.

Andrew Wyeth "Chambered Nautilus" 1956

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

The Cartwheel

In grammar school, I had a sweet and quirky friend named Margaret who told me she was only able to do a cartwheel if she heard the song, "My Sharona."

If only I was so lucky. My Sharona didn't help my cartwheel. But it didn't stop me from constantly doing a terrible one.

On the first day of the fifth grade cheerleading team the coach had us sit down around the mats.

"Who can do a cartwheel?", she called out. Lots of girls got in line. When everyone was finished, I whispered to my friend Meg, "Maybe I should try." She encouraged me, and I raised my hand as a late entry.

I walked over to the now very quiet front of the mat. I lunged forward and landed on my knees with a loud grunt. When I sheepishly walked back to my spot, Meg said kindly, "I've seen you do better." I wasn't chosen as captain.

My friend Carol got to go to a gymnastics class. She would come back each week executing splits, back bends, and front walkovers, all perfect.

Carol and I made up a game we called Olympics. We'd each take a turn doing our routine, two cartwheels one way, and two back.  Then we'd walk back to our imaginary coach who'd yell at us in fake Russian, Chinese, German, whatever we were that day. We'd switch and play the role of the upset gymnast, out of breath and nodding their head while being reprimanded for poor performance.

Of course, Carol would do perfect one handed cartwheels, and I'd attempt awful regular ones. The pretend coaches yelled at us equally.

And here I am, many decades later. If there's someplace pretty, my husband and daughter know the drill. I'll do my sorry cartwheel, and they will take enough shots so I can find the one that kind of looks right. I even still do the grunt.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Today is the nineteenth anniversary of my Mom's passing. I wrote this little book not too long after that. I never finished it or knew what to do with it. You should be able to scroll down to see all the pages, or click on the upper right corner icon to view it as a Google Doc.

Monday, December 4, 2017

I love the PBS series Finding Your Roots. Dr. Henry Louis Gates Jr., the historian and Harvard University professor, invites a celebrity to sit across from him as he reveals their family history as a page by page scrapbook. The stories are fascinating. Guests sit there thinking they're from one culture and end up finding out they're from something entirely different. And the details he finds!

I meet friends for some sunrise walking and running, and lately they have been telling me their equally incredible immigrant stories. There is not enough time on this planet to learn from the people in my own life, what they experienced and how it formed their place in this world.

I fantasize I will be a guest on Finding Your Roots. Dr. Gates will have me turn the pages of my family tree scrapbook and tell me the details of my grandparents and great grandparents. But I didn't always feel this way.

In 1976, there was a school parade in Queens celebrating the bicentennial. Each grade marched under a different theme. My sister's fourth grade class dressed as pioneers, wearing Little House on the Prairie bonnets and long dresses. My husband's third grade class dressed as Union and Confederate soldiers. One grade built giant Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria boats, pulled by a car.

My second grade was assigned to dress like our country of origin. My mother's family was Irish, but a few generations in. There were plenty of kids in my grammar school whose parents emigrated from Ireland, far more qualified to represent that country than me. My father's parents came here from Greece.  My Aunt Julia had a Greek costume that fit me, but I cringed. I was in a Catholic school, and no one else was really Greek.

My Greek grandparents died before I was born, but there were plenty of aunts, uncles and cousins. They were all nice to me, but it didn't in any way feel like my culture. They spoke Greek at family events and served Greek food. I didn't speak Greek or go near the food. (I watched my Irish mother politely avoid all the food.) My father told me stories of his Greek childhood, taking the bus with his mom and a live chicken purchased from the meat market, or coming home one day to find his pet rabbit missing only to discover it was dinner that night. He talked of how my grandmother raised five children in a Manhattan tenement without ever learning English, or how to read or write in any language. I love these stories now. I can't get enough of them. But in second grade they were too odd.

So, I made some excuse to get out of wearing the Greek costume and dressed like Switzerland. I channeled the pretty Swiss Miss Instant Cocoa girl and wore two braids and a jumper dress and an apron. I colored all that red on a homemade Switzerland flag. It was nice and neutral. Nobody questioned whether I was really Swiss or not.

I look back at that now and know it is all too common. The human need to fit in rather than stand out, only to grow up and realize all the odd parts are the best parts.

So, Dr. Gates, apparently my father had this pet rabbit...

Monday, November 27, 2017

It's that time of year again - time to come up with this year's Christmas card. I always wait until it's close, because I want it to be about what's happening in our lives in the moment.

Christmas cards have always been fun. My mom would let me open them as they came in. Then she would hang them on a red ribbon draped along the sides of the living room ceiling. (I hang my cards on a similar ribbon in her honor.)

Most of the cards were religious. Some looked expensive with gilded gold or velvet. I loved them all, but my favorite was from old friends of my parents, Carl and Nancy. I looked forward to finding that one in the mail every year. Nancy homemade their card. She would create a stencil, usually of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, spray paint it on a long sheet of paper, then tri-fold it, so it was both envelope and card.

 I thought they were fabulous, and it inspired me to make our family's card. My mom loved the idea. I was in grammar school and took an art class at night. The teacher set me up with an illustration board and I created an image in ink. She planned to have it printed, but the class ended and my Mom and I didn't know how to go about it on our own. I still have that first illustrated Christmas card, dated 1982:

After I had kids, making my own card became an annual challenge. For years, my hand would shake while I was dropping them in the mailbox. Putting my work out there for an audience was always scary for me.  I could picture (and worry) that the cards might be the source of real ridicule or confusion. But I took the chance anyway, because those cards were coming from the heart and told our story. Here are some from years past:

Cassiel liked to read to Calvin. A mix of our house and Goodnight Moon.

A favorite uncle stopped by one December night and strummed his mandolin while Cassiel played violin. Calvin danced along. It inspired this sequence.

Pencil rendering is always fun. Mocking a photo booth.

An oil painted beach image the first year we moved to California. I printed it as a refrigerator magnet.

We went back home for a visit in early December, and enjoyed a rare, magical, empty rink at Rockefeller Center. I sketched tiny images of all the loved ones that have passed away on that upper tier looking down on the rink. I imagined them looking out for my kids. And the two other skaters are Cassiel's twin sister best friends...:)

I illustrated a children's book called Yenta for Santa, and this image shows Cassiel and Calvin enjoying it, in a style with a little homage to Norman Rockwell.

We were on a train in Chicago, and Cassiel started falling asleep. Calvin gently guided her head to his shoulder, and I had my moment. I made it a coloring book sheet, and enjoyed people sending me images of their finished coloring pages.

If you'd like to see more of these Christmas cards, I have a section on my website under Novelty Design titled "Christmas Peace".


And if you have some cards to share, please drop me a link! Thanks for stopping by!