This afternoon an attractive 50-something year old man washed my feet and put my socks back on and laced up my shoes. Sadly, this was not a lover or even a pedicurist, but a technician at a podiatrist's office. Since I've been able to put on my socks and tie my shoes myself for at least a few decades, I felt rather foolish having him do the honors. There I was, my legs stretched out in front of me as I sat on the podiatry chair, jacked up to a height of about five feet off the ground. He said it was standard practice and, from what I observed in the waiting room, many patients are probably not capable of tying their shoes.
When I first arrived for my appointment, to check out some persistent pain in my left foot, I was one of the few fully ambulatory people around. Mostly older folk maneuvered in their wheelchairs and walkers, negotiating the path between the door and the reception desk. One man, his thinning hair slicked back with grease and his belly as round as that of the Buddha, was missing a foot. The receptionist handed me a stack of papers to fill out; on the top was written "Diabetic Foot Wound Center" and I asked her if, indeed, I was in the right place.
"Yes," she said. "Don't worry about that language. We take care of everything below the knee."
Below the knee. It was not an expression I'd heard before and, while it's true that my foot is below my knee, it can also affect areas above my knee, such as my hip and spine. But ours is specialized medical world and there was not much I could do about that. As I made my way through the forms, a woman in a motorized wheelchair returned to the waiting area from a consultation room; she wore specially made shoes, her head was held in place by a brace and her arms were covered with black fabric, obscuring her hands or where her hands might have been. Suddenly, my foot problem - and everything else on my mind - seemed quite trivial.
The podiatrist's analysis confirmed my suspicion of a pronated left foot; it has always tended to turn in but now the difference between my left and right feet had become quite stark and the imbalance was painful. My hiking habit will be interrupted for a few weeks while I wait for my orthotics to be made. In a saner system, my health insurance would cover the cost of these inserts, as they'll keep me active and probably prevent me from developing knee trouble later, which would be more costly to fix but would likely be covered. Such is the world we live in.
Showing posts with label Insanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Insanity. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity
Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.
When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.
All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.
“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.
“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.
I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.
And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.
I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.
Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.
I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.
Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.
What on earth had she been thinking?
Most likely she had not been.
I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.
When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.
All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.
“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.
“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.
I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.
And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.
I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.
Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.
I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.
Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.
What on earth had she been thinking?
Most likely she had not been.
I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Insanely Intense...or Intensely Insane?
I am wondering which of these two phrases would more aptly describe my third telemark ski class. This weekend, unlike the previous two, my class - three students and two teachers - headed to the back country, meaning that there were no chairlifts to whisk us to the top of the mountain. Beginning at an elevation of 10,800 feet, we had to hoof it up ourselves, on skis, carrying heavy backpacks filled with all the supplies we'd need. In mine I stowed nearly three liters of water, chocolate, cheese, a sliced apple and a sandwich, a down jacket, extra mittens and a hat, a first aid kit, and a mini-version of my wallet. To keep the skis from slipping we adhered skins to them - long strips of fuzzy fabric with very sticky glue on them and hooks on both ends.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
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