8.5 Jostens Yearbook Co 1972 and 1992

JOSTENS YEARBOOK CO holds a special place in my heart. It became my place in the world both times I needed a hand with life.

IT'S 1971, I'm 19, married, living in a Visalia, CA apartment with my new husband, no job, no car. I apply for a job within walking distance at a jean manufacturing plant. I am told I am over-qualified and would probably quit before I got started. The work was hard. you were paid piece rate. I returned the next day to ask how long I would need to work for it to be worthwhile for them to hire me. I was told 1 year,  I agreed, and got a job. 

ONE YEAR TO THE DAY, I quit that sweat job, and now I owned a car. Jostens hired me as a table-top artist. I was home. However, I only worked for 2 years. We moved to Three Rivers. 

IT'S NOW 20 YEARS later, I'm divorced with 4 daughters, starting over. Hello Jostens, I'm back. I stayed this time, working only 4 to 6 months out of the year, for 20 years. I was the last of the table-top artists to work there. I did not want to be a graphic artist, and so it was time to go. My light table sits in my three Rivers Studio. But what I learned there (Photoshop, juggling family and work, how to be a team member) and the friends I made, are with me to this day.

 

8. Letters From Little Creek

 I LOVED my Nadi Co. business, but wanted to work less hours and try painting in watercolor. What I did was create more work hours, since I could only paint when the wood orders were completed. I came up with a calendar idea called Letters From Little Creek, monthly designs of a family of rabbits. I sold some of the paintings, and all of my characters became wood art. 

I DREAMED of selling a calendar. One day, I told a friend, Vickie, that I often visualize being way up high in a New York office, talking to someone on the phone about my calendar. We laughed, and she said I had better be calling her.

SO, I ACQUIRED an agent. As a reference, she gave me the phone number of Boris Valejo. You know- the king of fantasy art, the guy whose calendar hung on our kitchen wall each year! Oh my, I can't call Boris Valejo! What would I say? But I researched his art and read a book about him, and when I finally worked up the nerve to call, he said, "You must be very talented. She only represents the best." Yowza. I was on Cloud 9 for months.

MY AGENT DELIGHTED me with news that she had sold my art, but as a book first, then a calendar. Could I come to New York to discuss it. I did, landing on the 15th floor on 5th Ave, where I promptly called Vickie to yell into the phone, "I'm in New York!"

WORKMAN PUBLISHING worked on the project for 8 years, and finally let it go. The writers they hired didn't work out, and it never came together. I made some money, learned a WHOLE LOT, but, Oh Man, Boris Valejo said I must be very talented.

9.5 My First Mural 1997

 

I NEEDED $800 to pay for a flight to Scotland. I had purchased the ticket but had not payed for it yet. My flight left on June1st, the trip would be for a month. I had no money, and a little more than a month to find it. I had just finished reading Outlander, by Diane Gabaldon, and the Celtic music was calling me. Ah, the life of an artist.

THAT'S WHY I accepted my first mural job. I didn't know how to paint a mural. They're so BIG. It was actually Colleen Mitchel-Veyna, a local muralist and friend, who gave me the nudge I needed. I was commissioned to do the next Exeter mural. I was given 10 photos, not at all related to each other in time or subject matter, and told to come up with a cattle mural. Well, I don't work that way. I told the committee that I would design a mural my way; if they weren't happy, they didn't have to pay me. They agreed.

THE GILL FAMILY came to my rescue. I knew the Gills and thought painting Adolph on his horse, leading a herd over Rocky Hill, was just the thing. Son Fred took me on Rocky Hill and showed me a normal path route and corrected any misguided ideas I had about where the cowboys would be located around the herd. Daughter Linda helped me photograph authentic saddle, rope and bridle, using her father's gear. And, finally, before I was finished, wife Clorie brought me a list of all the changes I needed to make on his face (I believe there were 13).   

 I ASKED a lot of questions. There was a lot to learn – what kind of horses did Adolph's crew ride in the 50's? – what kind of cows did they run back then? I LOVE researching a mural! I was ready.

6. Violin 1980

 IT IS 1981. I am now married with three daughters, the delights of my life. I love being a wife and mother, owning a home filled with cats and dogs, and my garden, and, maybe, I can ignore the urge to paint. Maybe not.

IT HAS BEEN several years since I painted, not wanting to upset my husband. Crazy that I married someone who did not want me to be an artist, especially since we met as artists in Yosemite. And I was still young and didn't know you can't just deny who you are.  So I signed up for a woodshop class at the local junior college. Surely making a bookshelf could not be threatening.

TO FAMILIARIZE myself with electric tools, I started with a simple footstool design, cutting a shape like a violin for the top. I had a pattern. I liked the jigsaw, and it was not too scary. In fact, it was really fun. Soon others in class were asking me to cut out their names, which I was happy to do, using a wood-burning pen to add detail. I never made my bookshelf.

BY THE END of the class, I had created Nadi Co. My husband enjoyed cutting out the pieces and so he joined me in this new endeavor. Over the next 15 years, we would supply 300 stores nationwide with cutout wood art.

WUSS

 I'M GOING TO SHARE something with you. I've always been shy. Oh, STOP laughing! I mean it. Stop. Take my word for it. It's true. I just decided, as a child, not to let it determine my life. I read all the books through the years, and gradually learned to feel the fear, and do it anyway. As a young artist (I was 19 when I started my career), I would envision tucking Fear under my arm, my constant companion on adventures. I thought he would eventually go away but, no, he's been tagging along for 50 years now.

I MADE RULES. I promised to follow them.

1) NEVER WAIT A TABLE. I wanted no jobs to fall back on when art didn't sell. It almost happened once, but a friend stopped me. Thanks Trish.

2) THE ANSWER TO ANY SPEAKING INVITATION IS ALWAYS YES. When asked to teach a 1-hour class to 25 1st-graders, I stressed for 2 weeks. When my 9-year old daughter said, "Mom, they are only 6 years old. What could happen?", my response was "I could die!" When being filmed once while working on a mural for foster kids, I got flustered and swallowed my words. Upon viewing the film, I was so relieved to see that it looked like I was choked up because I cared so much for the children.

3) ALWAYS LOOK LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING. When asked if I could paint a landscape mural of Sequoia Park, I said, of course- right up my alley. After signing the contract I called Ron Stivers, took him to lunch, and asked him how to paint a landscape. It would be my first.

I TURNED 70 this month, and I can say I have kept all 3 promises all these years. What a journey it's been, and what fun. Scary, stressful, challenging...EVERY SINGLE DAY (for a wuss). But what fun.

Rivera Men

 

         I ONCE WROTE that having experienced magic in the world once, you can never go back to a life without it. This last year has been less than magical, and I will admit that it got to me. If not for the
encouragement and support of my dog and horse art fans on Facebook, it might have taken a larger
toll.
          SO, LAST WEEKEND, a little down and looking for inspiration, I attended our local roping event here in Three Rivers, CA, an event that was cancelled the two previous years, an event I love. I go every year, taking photos of the horses mostly, since, if I want to paint people, I need to step out of my comfort zone to ask them for permission. I don’t know why it is still hard for me, I’m an old woman and should have it down by now.
           I SHOT THE HORSES for a while, but found myself watching people through the camera, people seriously involved in their passion- roping. I might not know the rules and language of the sport, But I recognize zeal when I see it. One boy twirling a rope kept popping up in the lens. I watched him in
the line-up, listening intently to a man, his dad I thought, both handling a rope. There was something
really good here, and I wanted to know more. I felt transported into a story where I felt attached to the
characters. I wanted them to succeed. And I was looking for a small win for myself, something to
jump-start the energy I felt I had lost.
            I FINALLY approached the son, and then Dad, and told him I was an artist seeking permission to paint his family. He readily gave it and agreed to friending on Facebook. I hesitate to intrude on
people’s lives, but I was hooked – and I knew I had my painting.
            AS I CONTINUED photographing, I sussed the family held two more- Mom and younger brother. I believe team roping is primarily taught by parents, and I’m guessing this Mom and Dad are great role models, as it showed in the boys’ abilities to accept both frustration and success gracefully. Truly a joy to watch.
             MONDAY MORNING arrived, and I was pumped and ready to start painting. I don’t know what ropers call it, but artists call it “being in the zone.”  The hard part was done, now it was time for fun. My photos all melded perfectly, and I finished an 18x36 in four days, fast even for me.
             I'VE LIVED the life of an artist for fifty years now, and the search for inspiration can be a struggle at times, especially when a funk sets in. But, at other times, quite unexpectedly, it’s magical.

18. Pink

Painting by Renny Spencer

I WAS PINK. That was the color my parents assigned to me. When I was born, I was given a name, Nadina Maria, and a color––pink. My older sister Lori was blue; my older brother Al was yellow. After me came green (Ron), brown (Leonard) and black (Richard). By the time Ray came along eight years later, colors were no longer dispensed, or else no one cared to remember his. The problem with the colors was that they labeled us incorrectly.

AT LEAST IN my case:pink. Pink––to my parents––meant feminine, soft and delicate. I was a tomboy! I hated dolls; I hated dresses; I hated waves in my hair tied up in ribbons. So many times I sobbed as Mom styled my hair with pinned-up curls. Dad would poke his head in the doorway. Oh, you shouldn't cry, it makes your face all puffy. Don't you want to look pretty?

NO I DID NOT. I wanted to wear jeans and play ball with my brothers. I wanted to wear football shoulder pads so I could show I was capable of taking hard hits. I wanted to wear fishing boots so I could catch tadpoles in the ditch. I wanted to wear a mitt. I wanted to run through the hot summers without wearing a shirt.

TO ADD SALT to the wound, every birthday and Christmas, for maybe my first six years, and regardless of how much I complained, no matter how much I begged for a puppy, I received a doll in a pink dress. Most of them were thrown out the back door, some were buried in the yard. The only one I kept long enough to remember her name––Rosie, sister to Lori's blonde, blue-clad doll Dodie––I kept buried in the third drawer down in my dresser. I never played with her, but I didn't hate her; it was not her fault that she landed in the wretched lap of a heartless, callous child. A sad life for a lovely doll.

ONE DAY, when I was three or four, I got a splinter in my finger. Dad said he would get it out. Oh no! That will hurt, I said as I locked myself in the hall bathroom. It won't hurt, said Dad. I promise. It will be over in a second; you will feel much better when it is out. Would I lie to you? If you let me take it out you can open one of your presents under the tree. Oh, no, no, I cried. I don't trust you; it will hurt; I won't feel better.

BUT STILL–– a present. Hmmm, maybe. I really liked presents. And how long could I stay locked in the bathroom anyway? I finally agreed. Dad dug out the tiny piece of wood with a needle that he heated over a flame on the stove; I screamed. I was then told I could pick any box with my name on it, which I did, a long skinny box, medium sized. Inside was––and how did I even think it would be something else––a doll. How could life be so cruel? I ran to the kitchen, really wailing now, and threw her in the trash bin. Seduced, deceived, betrayed––sold down the river.

I STARTED TO lose faith, began to think life would always be disappointing. Why even make a wish list if nobody read it. And then, the following Christmas, when I was just about to give up hope–– praying wasn't working, crying and begging weren't working, someone––God, my parents, Santa?–– took pity on me, and sent me a frog––a croaking, wooden pull-toy frog, a frog that I pulled around the house for months, inch-inching behind me, a frog that I loved with all my heart, a frog in beautiful green.

IT'S BEEN SIX decades since I first waged war on the color pink, and one decade since I have made peace with it. I never wore it, in clothing or nail polish or lipstick; I never adorned my house with it, in furniture or wall paint; pink flowers had no place in my studio garden. Other than to bring life to a dog's tongue, or to add accent to a sunset, and recently into my portraits, I have never used pink in my paintings.

MY MOTHER PICKED out all of my clothes until I left home at eighteen; she did, however, eventually, let me pick the colors. I recall, with utter joy, one special day shopping when she said I could pick out any color dress. I chose a metallic striped dress that contained every color in existence; my mother was horrified; I was crazy happy. She kept her word and I wore it until it fell apart.

I THINK MOM tried to understand that I was mismarked at birth, but she could never really relinquish the identity she had constructed for me. It was necessary to her well-being that her categorization of the important pieces of her life, and that included her children, were kept intact. I understood this from an early age and, even though I would have relished venturing across an honest childhood, it was never necessary to me that she know the bona-fide me. At some point in my adolescence I stopped having an opinion about most things discussed at the table; I stopped thinking my parents wanted to know what I was about.

BUT IT CAME up one last time. Mom was over eighty; she died soon after; the times we spent together had become comfortable, if not easy. Whatever remnants of resentment still lingered inside me quietly leaked out like air escaping through a tiny hole in a balloon. No anger, no regrets, I had long ago donned my true colors; pink no longer carried any meaning. The previous year, as a Christmas gift, I gave each of my grown children an artist's sketchbook, scissors and a glue stick, with instructions for creating an "I LOVE" scrapbook, for which there is only one rule: you must love anything you paste in the book. This would be my fourth book, and what I learned was that they create an intimate and revealing glimpse into one's life, a diary in pictures. I decided to share mine with Mom.

IF YOU CARE to Mom, go through this book sometime, over a cup of coffee. It's nothing important. just a year of clipping pictures that get my juices flowing. You might enjoy it. She said she would and I believed her. I remember wishing she had one of her own to offer in return.

THE FOLLOWING morning she called to apologize. Oh, Nadi, she said. I never knew you.