Family Business

I am an artist. No really. People occasionally pay me in coin of the realm for my creativity. My grandfather was a lawyer in Detroit, and a damn good one. Sometimes he would get paid in meat, cheese, or other goods from his clients in various market based industries. Another time. Another story.

I have had a very productive, and fulfilling career as a creative maker of various types, as an educator, and even as a gallery director/administrator. Some folks even seek my opinions these days, and I give it more than freely. I guess that's called consulting. I even have 2 degrees in Art and one of them is a Masters. Whatever.

Now it's time for me to throw another hat on the rack: I am purchasing the guts to a mom and pop picture framing operation. I know enough about the process to get into a bit of trouble, as well as craft some nice homes for people's treasures. That's what a frame is. Sanctuary. At its most basic level, a signal and reminder of value and importance, be it monetary, sentimental, whatever. I will be providing this now and I do not take this responsibility lightly. I'll be leaning on some great framing mentors to get myself up to speed with the mechanics and I'm excited about this new chapter. There will be branding and there will be marketing as I look to find my niche, and part of that component involves "give-away-stuff." I love give-away-stuff.

 I am also excited at the prospect of having a traditional, craft based, creative, endeavor to share with my son, Finn. He has been raised in a what you might call an environment that fosters and supports creative expression. There are rules and there is order, but at the core of our household there exists a world of exploration and making. This new opportunity will plug right into that quite nicely, and if things go well, someday "it will all be his."

I will still be designing, I will still be illustrating, I will still be teaching, and I will still be consulting, but now I'll be doing this too. Along with my son who used to have long hair.

and it begins...

My son met a girl at the pool yesterday. He told me on facetime last night. He gathered the courage to ask her if he could have her e-mail address, then he went over to the lifeguard and asked for a pen. That's some lifeguard, man.

She lives in the Northwest (Seattle), and is visiting for a couple of weeks. "She's 10, really tall, has braces AND a spacer," according to Finn. I knew this day was coming. My son would meet someone who made him feel kind of all weird inside, but a good weird, and just like that, he would cross over. You can't prepare for this no matter how hard you try. Another bittersweet moment in the growth of your not little anymore-one, but so much more sweet to this dad.

I hope I am ready for what I anticipate to be a steady battery of questions and opportunities for "advice" that isn't too heavy handed or absolute (let's face it, what do I know?) The sudden interest and need for various grooming products. ("That's not the kind I wear, dad." or worse yet "Hey Finn, my Issey Miyake seems to be evaporating, know anything about that?") The urgency of all sorts of new things. I can't wait. Really. Honestly. I remember, several hundred years ago, when I too had that buzz in my head and my chest. It was wonderful and terrifying, but by far it was more wonderful.

I don't worry too much about Finn. He's raised by a village, or a tribe, or whatever and I think he's being raised right. I know he will be a true gentleman and I know he will treat the object of his affection with the utmost respect. I am also pretty sure that humor will play a large part in his courtships. I hope so. Perhaps, at the age of 10, I am putting far too much cart in front of his horse. I should just relax a bit. Let nature take its course. Chill out a bit.

I'll be accepting resumes from his perspective prom dates starting in January.

hugs

Official dad business today: Finn had to get a shot, and he didn't much care for it. It hurt, and he immediately buried himself into his father's arms where, after a minute or two of tears, some back rubbing, and kisses on the head, he emerged with a sniff, comforted and ready for dinner.

I was raised in a family that takes hugs very seriously. When you're hugged by a Schudlich, you're hugged for real. Finn has taken to this tradition like a fish to water, never afraid to "throw one on you." He even prides himself on what he calls "sneak attack hugs." Few things compare to one of these, when you least expect it, and maybe need it the most. Finn has an uncanny knack for knowing this.

I can't make shots hurt less, but I can hug like there's no tomorrow, and that kind of medicine is good for both Finn and I. No prescription needed.

mr. manners

Pot Roast with the Most. Finn and Stephen Schudlich, March 1, 2015

Finn and I attended a movie the other day in which the line, "Manners maketh man" was uttered  by a genteel, impeccably dressed British gentleman just prior to him delivering a thrashing to a pub full of thuggish blokes without so much as even slightly loosening his double Windsor.

In the 14^th century, William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, founded two great educational institutions that is New College Oxford and the Great Public School at Winchester. He gave to both the same motto; “Manners maketh Man”. In those days the word “manners” did not mean mere outward behavior, as it does now, but what we should call good conduct or morality.

I was raised to have manners. Good manners. Manners that today in some circles may seem archaic and old fashioned.  Even so, I make every attempt to educate my son to observe the same social etiquette that his father was taught by his father. We say please and we say thank you. We ask people "How are you?" and we wait for the answer. We hold doors (this in particular seems to be a dying art, and when we are out and someone makes no attempt to hold a door even slightly, EVEN if we are directly behind them, I usually tell Finn "This person doesn't appear to have any manners," and it's usually loud enough for them to hear me.)

Finn has a wonderful way of swooping in and retrieving items dropped or forgotten by people, both young and old alike. "Here you are," he says with a smile on his face and in his voice, "I think you dropped this." There are times that people are just speechless for a second or two. I've seen it.

One of the things that Finn and I like to do is send cards to people. Hand done cards. Lately we have been "collaborating" on these. It's nice to send them off once in awhile for no reason at all, other than to just say "Hi, we're thinking about you," but birthdays, thank yous, etc. are good too. I refuse to believe that there is anyone who doesn't like to receive a piece of "human touch" mail with all of those 1-800-Hansons and Papa John's coupons.

Of course I would be remiss if I didn't touch on the topic of punctuality. Be on time. If you say you are going to be somewhere or do something at a certain time, be there or do that thing when you say you are going to. Being notoriously, carelessly, repeatedly late and devaluing, or non-valuing another's time is one of the great acts of disrespect. I never cease to be amazed at students, in particular, who waltz into class 15-30 minutes late, without so much as a "sorry, man."

 I have to go now. Midterms are due in today, and I have a bit of last minute look-over to do. One of the requirements in the syllabus is attendance. ON TIME ATTENDANCE. Tardies add up to absences, absences translate into grade reduction and this is with full administrative and institutional support and blessing.

"Hey, Mr. Steve, how come I got a C?"

"Sorry, man."

pet cemetary

There are tasks and duties that we have to see to as parents that are not enjoyable, but they are every bit as important as "the good stuff." As a single parent, I lack the benefit (or hinderance) of another's readily available opinion when it comes to such matters. I do the best I can. I learned from two very wonderful parents of my own.

Today, Buddy the Betta crossed over the River Jordan. The parent/child/pet triangle is a delicate one. Often times the child's pet becomes as much ours and sometimes it makes complete transfer in responsibility (though never "officially".) Such was the case with Buddy. Buddy was the first pet that Finn got with just his dad, and he lived at Finn and his dad's house. In ways, Buddy signaled a normalcy, a sense of "home" in our house. Located in the kitchen by the side door stairs, he was greeted upon entering, and said goodbye to when leaving. He was a good fish in that he was active and quite beautiful (handsome, rather.) He seemed to enjoy people being in the kitchen, which we always are and he would frolic around his tank in what appeared to be performance. He watched me bake many many cookies, sharing his table with floured boards and cooling racks. And he listened to good music of all kinds. 

I think Buddy lived a good life, as good as we could give him. After a few tears, and a big hug, Finn put Buddy into the freezer. We'll give him a proper burial in the Spring.
Finn asked me a couple of years ago if animals go to heaven. Yes.

#drawforanhour

Sorting through drawings. Great time with Finn last night. Saw some wonderful people that I don't get to see much anymore. Endi (Poskovic), Julie and their boys, growing like weeds (now that Finn has cut his hair, Elvin stands alone as the long haired lad triumphant), and Nick Tobier whose energy, "bounce" and passion I miss a great deal. It was also heartening to see former students out and about engaging and infusing. Keith Kemp (with grey in his beard!) and creative wiz Michael Eugene Burdick (who graciously shared his table with me.) Ryan Wheeler was there from CCS (though I never had Ryan in a class, a piece of his "inspirational" artwork adorns my refrigerator.) Also nice to see Ryan Standfest laboring over his huge pile of medium, next to Timothy van Laarand John Charnota with his logical, dice born drawings. Chris Riddell still has that laugh by the way. Had a few words with Jennifer Belair, and Melissa Dettloff (who share some WSU lineage with me.) Nick and Grace, current students from CCS who JUST finished finals and, rather than get immediately out of Dodge, came out to see what the big deal was. You two have cemented your grade of D-, well done. I am sure I have missed many, but the evening was a blur. A marvelous blender of unfiltered making. Thanks for the invite Alison and Megan.

Off to Dick Blick today to get Finn a "big pad." I can't describe what it feels like to have your son follow you up the creative path. Past the finger paintings, pinch pots, and paper plate "hand turkeys" into the REAL stuff. Whether he stays on this path or not is up to him, but for now, we're going to need more paper...

holidays

A divorce doesn't prevent the holidays from coming, but it certainly changes them and  complicates them a bit. I went from a father who tucked his son into bed on Christmas Eve, and was there when he awoke on Christmas morning, to a dad who drives cross town to pick him up on the 25th, consequently missing out on both the "eve" and "the morning."

Traditions have to be revisited, often to appease a court order, signed by a stranger. That's the way it is. Over time, hopefully, lines of communication can grow to allow "flexibility." But a child is by far the most important factor in all of this. Not the petty pissing matches of his parents.

The number on the calendar tends to mean less to me than it used to. I attend mass on Christmas Eve, and I miss my son. The singing of Silent Night brings tears to my cheeks for more reasons than it does the others in the pew, but this reflection and ceremony of emotion, fueled by absence, along with heartfelt thanks for another year of his health and happiness (he was born on December 31st), serves to strengthen my bond with Finn. 

I have always tried to create  new traditions for my son and I during the holiday season. We hang stockings, he and I, and we put up and decorate a tree. This year he hung every ornament himself with pride. We have an advent calendar, and I am charged with "keeping up" when he's not with me. I also put out a plate of cookies on Christmas Eve, that are mysteriously consumed, save some crumbs before Finn and I arrive home. Our Christmas is on the evening of Christmas Day, after the trip to relatives, good warm showers, the donning of pajamas, and some special snacks. We sit in front of the fire and I get to be Santa's conduit. But I also get to be Finn's father at a time when being so is the greatest gift I will ever receive. I have enough socks, and I purchase my own cologne. We stay up late, laughing, until he just can't keep his eyes open anymore. That's when I get to tuck him in.

The next morning we have a grand breakfast together, and plot our day of doing nothing. Nothing at all. The 26th is the Feast of St. Stephen (St. Stephen's Day) for good Catholics, Boxing Day for you Kiwis and Canadian friends. With all due respect to the liturgical calendar, and a nod to old St. Steve, I like to joke that this is MY day (my name is Stephen after all.) My special Christmas Day with Finn.