The Education of a Portrait Painter

Artist

FAQs

Oil Portraits

Charcoal Portraits

Tombstones

Those Who Can...

Human Frailties I: Setting Goals

Ancient Mediterranean Art

The Other Boleyn Girl

Artists' Obsessions

Mistress of the Art of Death

Chicken With 
Its Head Cut Off

And/Or the Stuff I Spend My Time On.

Ida Kotyuk, Portrait Painter,    
P.O. Box 6627,                                            Lynn Larson, 
Villa Park, Illinois, 60181,                          Larson Editing Services Simplified
Ida@Portraits-Oils.com                           larson.editing@ymail.com

Tombstones

In times of life-changing decisions: should I quit what I am doing, should I move from where I am, what should I do; rather than visit my place of worship looking for answers, or consult with friends or family; I sit in a local cemetery among its tombstones. What a grand place for an uncommon and out-of-the-ordinary worldview. There, I find a serenity where each “should I,” “could I,” “would I” becomes insignificant. [One year, considering a decision which would turn my world topsy-turvy, I called on those tombstones for three months.]

While traveling, if there was a cemetery in town, I would visit and read each tombstone (Blessed Heart was a common epitaph). I searched for, and sometimes found, advice to age-old questions from others who went before me.

One day I came across a tombstone that read:

As I was, you now are.
As I am, you will be.*

Long familiar with the quote, I wondered what was the intention of this departed soul. Were these words, by which he wished to be remembered, bitter; or, were these words melancholic? Wasn’t Blessed Heart enough, which, at the least, implies a loving family, not a warning—ha ha, you’re next.

Years of visiting cemeteries compelled me to speculate what sort of message would I choose to leave for the thousand generations to follow. My family always answers, “Well, we would put Blessed Heart.”

Hmmm… I think I would like something more descriptive. I’m an artist, after all.

The problem is, every few years, I change my tombstone’s engraved inscription. [Is that a pun?] Each altered message is an indication of a new attitude.

The first time I gave any thought to that first epitaph of mine, it would have read, in teeny, tiny print, forcing the viewer to bend and squint:

If you can read this, you can kiss my ass.

Oh—those angry years! Yes—indeed. That inscription lasted a long time.

Then there were the years trying to fit three lifetimes into one—Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda. I blame computers and multi-tasking.

I want to be crystal clear. I don’t want a “Huh” after reading my tombstone. How about a photograph of my self-portrait done in oil? There would be two ideas: one, I was a portrait painter; and two, this is what I looked like. But like Rembrandt, which self-portrait to use? At what age? Sigh… I want something that reflects the woman I had been and the woman I had become. This one lasted only a week. Where’s the message?

For a short while I chose the simple words—Thank You for Life. I was depressed that year. I don’t remember why; perhaps someone dear to me died, and I needed a positive affirmation. That’s the problem with inscriptions, I remember the inscription but forget the purpose.

Another year, there was—Oooops, I Got It All Wrong. Here’s a problem I have; my cup is always half full and I forget my regrets the following year, if not day. After all, what is the greatest regret—but not to try at all. And, if for those few moments I get it right, I have been gifted a lifetime to get it wrong.

Then I began to think of other people’s quotes. I seem to like quotes.

Jimmy Hendrix: I think it was he, from his autobiography No One Gets Out of Here Alive—stuck with me for a few years.

Or, Roald Dahl: his quote during his divorce from Patricia Neal, I would have liked for someone to bring me a cup of tea—Sort of says it all…

What are the mortal words to answer future ramblers’ concerns? How to speak to the collective unconsciousness of various cultures for the next thousand years. [That’s how us artists think.] How many pixels do we need? How many canvases to paint? How many songs to sing? How many buildings to build?

I loved those early tombstone-rambling years, those lone messages unique only to me—how short is life. I have curbed my rambling. I recognize too many names, and come to acknowledge John Donne got it right—no man is an island. We are all connected by a continuous umbilical thread; we, tethered to a common destiny. Possibly Blessed Heart, of all answers, is the most faithful. It is not what we did, nor what we left behind; but rather, we loved, and were loved in return.

*     *     *

*Following is one internet comment (in its entirety) regarding the various sources for the above quote: To read additional comments, search  http://able2know.org.

Posted by NF: Thu 3 Jun, 2010 01:19AM

“The earliest known portion of this quote I could find was on the epitaph of Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince of Wales, son of King Edward III.

He passed at the age of 45 on June 8th, 1376. The phrase composes the first two lines of the epitaph upon his tomb in Canterbury Cathedral, Kent, England.

His epitaph read as such:

Such as thou art, sometime was I.
Such as I am, such shalt thou be.
I thought little on th'our of Death
So long as I enjoyed breath.
But now a wretched captive am I,
Deep in the ground, lo here I lie.
My beauty great, is all quite gone,
My flesh is wasted to the bone

Hope this helps!  -NF”

[Thanks, NF — Ida]
Ida Kotyuk July 17, 2010 ©

Those Who Can. Do!
Those Who Can’t. Teach!

I first heard the above quote sometime in college. Oh, those cliché-filled and fueled college days, when all-knowing freshman students scorn their professors; a time we believed professors became teachers because they couldn’t make it in the real world.

Interestingly, all the men… hmmm… most of the men in my immediate family marry school teachers, and school teachers are different from the rest of us. A typical Thanksgiving dinner becomes an unending litany of instructions, beginning with our entry at the front door.

“Take off your coat, hang it on that third hook. No! Not that one, the third hook. Sit in that chair over there. Not that one, the closer red one… .”

So it would go until the buffet line started.

“Pick up the plate, take a napkin. No. Not that napkin. Help yourself to… .”

Boy-oh-boy, Kotyuk men sure like bossy women.

Is it true teachers can’t do and doers can’t teach? Is this a cliché with an element of truth or a myth waiting to be debunked?

Subsequently, I had the opportunity to teach, one hour a week, within various elementary schools. I taught drawing for Young Rembrandts, an after-school program. A discipline that adheres to the idea to teach drawing fundamentals by rote. That is, teaching future visual artists is similar to teaching the alphabet to future writers.

Ah… my classes. Within that hour, my students ranged from 5-year olds to 12-year olds. A disadvantageous age range because a 5-year-old child’s needs are different from a 12-year old child’s needs. Particularly as a 12-year old begins to believe they know everything there is to know.

It was easy to pick out those students who were there for their mother or father and not because they had an interest in drawing. Or, their interest had more to do with copying what the teacher had done, than learning the process of drawing.

What an education.. .

How do I enthuse students to draw what they see. I found myself caught up in “oiling the squeaky wheel.” That is, spending my time on the slower students, my pet peeve of other teachers [and employers]. That wide age range kept me on my toes, because children will always test and push you.

I taught drawing for 18 months and learned—I loved to teach. What joy to show a child the skills and tools to draw!

I immersed myself in various methods to present analytical thinking. How to translate three-dimensional images onto a small two-dimensional surface. What a breathless experience; to see a mind grow and expand with different routes to age-old problems.

But, in the process, I found myself forced to choose between preparing for class or preparing a canvas; forced to interrupt my flow of ideas, where I am in that painting, and where I wanted to go. At that moment in my studio, flowing with ideas (and more often than not, struggling); regardless of what I was doing, I must leave to teach.

To return to the above cliché, I learned two valuable lessons during those 18 months.

First, children need precise direction. Put your coat on THAT hook. Take YOUR name tag and PLACE it in front of you at THAT desk. Sit in THAT chair. Use THAT paper. Etc., Etc.

Well—now I sound like my sisters-in-law.

Secondly, when I taught, there was very little left over. It is what I call “loss of psychic space” in my brain. In the free crevices of time during my day, rather than face a blank or half-finished canvas with “fiddle-fart” ideas, my time was spent on how best to reach a particular student to better understand, or, in my case, to draw.

Teaching was eating into my studio time. Eating into my psychic brain, my psychic space, and my psychic time. And so, I had to make an either/or choice. I couldn’t do both. Artists need a lifetime to grow within their area of expertise. Dancers and athletes spend years preparing for a two-hour performance or game. In the Olympics, your performance lasts only three or more minutes. That “eye-on-the-prize” focus cannot be split. For those few moments of “getting it right” we need years to get it wrong.

But, thanks to those little hellions, er… children, those 18 months changed me into a different artist—one whose perceptions were influenced by the world-view of 5-to-12-year olds; and, hopefully, I am a more understanding sister-in-law, as well.

Ida Kotyuk June 3, 2010 ©

Human Frailties I: Setting Goals

Goal setting is the bane of human existence. Not the goals we set for ourselves which have an end; i.e., finishing college, finishing Masters’ degree, married by a certain age, children by another. Nor do I mean those errands that eat our day, our brain, our “to do” list (which, at any given time, I have nine separate lists). But rather, those endless, lifetime, goals we set to perform at our personal best. Goals that are “good for us,” our good intentions. Hmmm….

 Those goals become evidence of our frailties and are thorns on this rose bud’s stem. There are two thorny goals I set for myself.

  My first goal is to “show up.” Easy enough to do when showing up for an appointment. But showing up to visit my local health club, today, an imaginary monster stands between me and my front door. A monster I managed to conquer for years and years until, suddenly (or, maybe, not so suddenly), it is my adversary, a formidable victorious opponent.

  I hear my doctor say, “Exercise!” All around me I see the results of those who do and the results of those who do not.

  Why has it become a challenge to visit a local health club that does not move? It sits there, a gorilla, waiting on a main artery road, only a few blocks away (easily walked, but that is another good intention). I now drive out of my way. I do not want a reminder of that “good” goal.

  I use all sorts of mental tricks to get up and go. I move my health-club clothes and equipment into my car. Brrr… Winters are cold in Chicago. How about the pep talk: I’ll start with one-half hour three times a week, lift a few weights, and go home. Oh! Groan… Do I take that half-hour away from my nap time? Do I take that half-hour away from my studio time? Do I take that half-hour away from my errand running time? Or, do I take that half-hour away from my lunch/dinner time? How about showing up the first thing at 6:30am in the morning? Hmmm…. No. After running my dogs in the enclosed dog run from 6AM to 7AM [See! They have no problems!], mornings are my most creative time, when my creative juices flow.

  The second thorn (oooops, goal) is to let go. I don’t mean the big universal stuff like letting go of relationships; i.e., our children, our ex-husbands. But, rather, the letting go of that which clutters our life, especially projects that artists believe we will finish one day. To close the door on our projects is to admit “no more.” We are less than worthy for not completing those works-in-progress. Unquestionably, I’ll get to those magazines. Yes! I plan to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica (and, look at all those books!). Oh yeah! I need those saw horses because one day I’m going to build something long-in-length that I need the extended support. It hasn’t happened in 25 years.

  It is hard to let go because artists always want to experiment in other media. To be a better painter, I try to learn another medium. To do so, forces a change in my relationship with whatever I wish to paint. To make jewelry helps me with abstract thought and abstract shapes. The instant gratification of photography is similar to writers jotting down their ideas. Writers’ notes are rarely the final art form. And so, artists build a clutter in both mind and physical space. Our minds become cluttered with ideas. (Notes upon notes, is there a path to hell filled with a thousand notes?) Our studios and homes are cluttered with the tools and works-in-progress of those ideas, our projects, our goals.

 So why include the health club on my “goal” list? Somewhere in here, I need to show up at the health club to increase my stamina to complete those works-in-progress. Somewhere in here, I want to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica to harvest new ideas culled from ancient thoughts. Why set myself up for weekly failure? Because I am an over achiever, and somewhere in here, I slowly determine, perhaps, that ship has sailed.

Ida Kotyuk March 28, 2010 ©

Ancient Mediterranean Art

Art is a mirror of people and cultures. We, artists, ape and mimic what we see, push against what is, and/or reinterpret the two. In addition to all the signed treaties throughout history, all the battles in history, “art” (visual, literary, theater, etc.) was and is history’s and, thereby, each culture’s story teller.

I had no interest in history. Like children everywhere, I knew history started on my birthday. My child, and early adult, view was “from this point forward;” to work today for tomorrow’s rewards. A philosophy similar to the idea of driving across country. If you want to drive from here to there, in unfamiliar territory, get out your map and plan ahead. No need to know what “had been” where, yesterday. My experiences with “history” in both high school and college, were names, dates, locations, and “this is important, because….” I viewed “history” as only lessons to be learned. Who cares about treaties of the past, battles of the past? Or, who cares about antiques? Or, who cares about [fill in the blank] history. Ho Hum… When I chose to become a painter, like driving into unknown territory, I lived from that day forward, not in yesterdays.

I held this conviction through to my Master’s degree. I suffered those survey courses. Who cares which ones. Artists are familiar with that Damocles art survey course hovering over our heads. We review 2,000 years of intellectual thought in three or four months; memorizing dates, names, and locations. Don’t misunderstand, I am always inspired viewing original works of art; but dates, names, and locations, who cares? But, artists have to fulfill art history requirements. One summer I had a choice. The kind of choice we look back on years later and go “OMG!” Northern Illinois University (NIU) offered a number of diverse courses in various studies at my local two-year college, College of DuPage (COD, that has a rather nice ranking). As COD was 20 minutes of driving and NIU was an hour or more, I, thinking of convenience, enrolled to learn about ancient Mediterranean art. My goal, after all, was to complete one more history requirement, and who really cares which history.

I had a passionate knowledgeable instructor. Our class was small and intimate. He brought heaps and volumes of copied paper of required reading that was out of print. How intimidating are those first days of any university class due to covering the course outline: paper, paper, test, test, by this time, and by that time. Hmmm… There goes my summer.

And so we got to work, and I learned this and I learned that. Our small group read our papers in class. I was awed by the clever insightful mind of art history majors. I remember one paper to be an argumentative dialogue between space and volume as figures from mythology, and there I am with my insipid intellect.

As the course drew on, I became aware of the Etruscans and Etruria, and was sure they were a town somewhere in Egypt [ooopsie]. I was seduced by and came to love the Etruscans. Especially when I discovered the Greeks were horrified to learn Etruscan women were permitted to participate in all areas of life that men participated. Women appeared at the games. Women got drunk at revelries. Women were expected to kick up their heels; unlike demure, well-bred, Greek women.

[A digression: Etruscans were a shocking race well beyond Hedonism. Today, if you were to Google “Etruscan women” you will find many sites describing a hedonist culture that comes with sensitive and age-appropriate warnings. [One does not find such warnings under “Etruscan men…harrumph.] It wasn’t what they did, but that the Etruscans did it all in public; not behind a column, not in a doorway, not in private, not surreptitiously, but in public. But I claim innocence during that summer.]

If you were to see an Etruscan sarcophagus, you will carry the memory forever. The wife, embraced by her husband, both sit upright, and have that “Etruscan” smile. To this day, I can recognize an Etruscan portrait or piece of art. It’s that smile, you see. It is relaxed, contented, and satisfied [and now I know why].

My final paper was on Libya. Why? I was motivated by photographs of an archeological dig suspended because of Libya’s changing attitudes toward everyone non-Libyan. My research uncovered before-and-after photographs of the dig. First, you see a lot of sand with one or two protruding pillars, then, you see the excavation. How could I not appreciate archeologists’ labor, working with a spoon or brush, to reveal that enormous slumbering city. I pictured myself standing on Libyan sand, kicking the pillar, and thinking, “what’s THIS doing here?” Unimaginative and short-sighted, I know.

My ancient Mediterranean immersion was complete when a contemporary friend asked “what’s the date.” I didn’t know what year it was. A month after the fact of that summer, balancing my check book, I discovered all my summer checks were dated 800 BC.

The Etruscans are gone now, wiped out by conquering Romans. Libyans still talk to no one. But, that Mediterranean art history course challenged and changed my attitude about the past; and the many ways to drill down to the daily lives of people. They, and it, all become real. Today, I look around and see with eyes wide open, where and what, through the eyes of others. The stories they left found a corner in my heart, and a drawer full of canceled checks misdated 800 BC. What a gift.

Ida Kotyuk December 14, 20009 ©

The Other Boleyn Girl

Casting Directors

Notwithstanding the 1,001 historical inaccuracies (a bone to be picked up and gnawed some other time), I love the film “The Other Boleyn Girl” (American version). It spoke to me: the actors; the characterizations; the director’s work; as well as a music score written for each character. It all came together. Always, I am impressed by the efforts of the film industry’s jump-through-hoops in order that you and I become part of, and understand, the events and characterizations we see on screen. The film industry spoon feeds information to us, as we, the audience, allot them fewer than ten seconds to tell us who, what, when, where and why.

The profession I most admire is the role of the casting director. Many times I feel he should receive an additional bonus. [A digression: History Channels’ casting director for “Battles BC” should get a very, very, very special big bonus.] He requires a sensitivity special to his job; narrowing the field to the select few to be chosen who best represent the script’s character. He must comprehend the requirements of a wide international audience. It is crucial that he assist us, the audience, to know which character is which; in other words, to tell the characters apart. The casting director can handicap a viewer if he lacks the awareness of inherent visual similarities found in both cultural and familial resemblances. His is a complex responsibility. In reality, cultures and families resemble each other and to an outsider, like myself, watching a foreign film, it is hard to tell the father from the uncle, the uncle from the cousin, the aunt from the mother, and the sister from sister without the fine distinction of physical nuance.

Thanks to the visual dissimilarity of Anne, Mary, and yummy Henry VIII, I could tell the characters apart. [Another digression: based on Holbein’s portraits of Henry VIII, I never understood the seduction of a powerful king and the women who threw themselves at him. Or, did Henry fill his court with accommodating women? Rather, I see the king in ordinary men.] I found the movie to be less about important historical figures than the dynamics of family and family ambitions. I am aware of two dissimilar sisters chasing the same boyfriend; sisters that, today, could live across from me. Viewing Anne and Mary, I ask myself, how would a portrait painter show their dissimilarity in a painting when, in truth, they would look remarkably similar?

For you must understand, a lone portrait painter tries to capture that same family dynamic that takes hundreds of personnel in the film industry. While the casting director works backward from what I do, our final results “must be the same.” He works from the script and the author’s and/or director’s ideas of a prescribed personality; whereas the portrait artist seeks out the personality in the existing image. The casting director picks an image from thousands of choices, whereas the portrait painter captures a thousand nuances in one image.

Double that dilemma by two. How would a portrait artist reveal the dynamics between two sisters knowing there are years of hidden emotions? I can’t just put them side by side and hope for the best. Who is dominant? What if one sister is a gray little mouse and the other sister a pit bull? Aesthetics, alone, never offers a solution.

Also, much like the film industry, the portraitist must keep more than one or two people happy. We must consider all the other relatives who will view the finished portrait: aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, and in-laws. At times a client doesn’t know how he or she feels about a portrait until someone says, “that’s really nice!” In addition, the portraitist will want to consider the hundred years of past history and his/her place in it. The method of application, colors used, brush strokes, paint, pastel, watercolor, charcoal, pencil, and/or clay, all determine the era, and the artist’s perceptions within that era, in which the portrait was created.

A popular misconception is to assume a portrait captures what a camera captures; i.e., that one second in time. When, in fact, what a finished portrait accomplishes is similar to what the film industry accomplishes (and what the movie audience experiences); that is, the disclosure of personality that stands up to re-reviewing over time and future generations. Our photographs live their life in a drawer somewhere within our house, but an oil portrait will live its life somewhere on a wall.

Additionally, film industry advantages to illustrate a personality are: staff to bring the project to completion, moving time to reveal a character’s growth or change, each character’s music to describe that character’s inner-self, a longer period to complete a movie (possibly a year or two), and a captive audience. Whereas, the portraitist has the quiet slow-moving brush, pencil, or clay and only a few weeks to interpret an individual’s characterization, and the hope that such effort will be as successful.

How would I paint a portrait of Anne or Mary Boleyn? I could consider giving each sister her own canvas; but that, in a way, is to cheat. The casting director knows both sisters will be on the screen at the same time, we see the similarity/dissimilarity in both, and I must do no less.

Ida Kotyuk November 13, 2009 ©

Artists’ Obsessions

Do Our Obsessions Seek Us, Or Do We Seek Our Obsessions?

Obsession or passion, which do you have? Our passions motivate us; whereas, we believe our obsessions destroy us. The difference, for artists, is our passion will draw us to the studio to follow through and complete an idea; but obsession will not permit us to leave our studio; we find ourselves eating and sleeping in that space. To walk away from an obsession is to close the door on it forever; there are times I have thought “if I stop painting, I will never paint again; it is to feel empty like the Alzheimer brain—there is a hole that all the pharmaceuticals in the world will never fill.

Society approves when either obsession or passion is directed toward our art. I see, and am fascinated by your obsession when I volunteer as a docent at my local art museum in Elmhurst, Illinois. We meet the artist prior to his or her exhibit during a one-on-one interview. In that interview, in addition to the usual biographical and technical questions, I ask the artist what is the lure of your medium: what is the lure of aluminum for painters and sculptors; what is the lure of tiny, tiny beads and beading in crafting and sculpting; what is the lure of volume for sculptors; what is the lure of weaving for weavers; and what is the lure of prints for printmakers? I ask why that medium in that way on that surface? Is the exhibit personal; a political statement; or classical ideas? Because, at times, I see a pure mathematical grid, at times passionate color, at times volume, and at times shape.

I am always enchanted by your answers. I meet floral artists who lay themselves on sun-drenched earth drawing strength and sustenance into their daily lives and their paintings; I meet sculptors of aluminum for whom the qualities of aluminum is more creative and forgiving than stone or wood; I meet artists for whom the manipulation of beads or woven fiber is a tactile choice; and what I do see consistently in your media is a sensual, corporeal, tangible, carefully-selected choice to describe your spiritual experience, your voice, or your feeling.

Also, I like to ask artists, what is the process that got you from there to here; was it a teacher in school, was it the medium, or who were your influences? Usually everyone names a positive influence; but for myself, I find that people with whom I disagree and argue help me to find my voice. Sometime I don’t know how I feel about something until I disagree with someone.

In disagreement, I have come to learn that I will always swim upstream (I don’t mean re-invent the wheel), but I am always willing to tackle the hard projects. That was a good thing to learn about myself as soon as possible because to learn “how to swim upstream” is as important an obsession to recognize as the medium I select.

Humanity, my portraits, painting, drawing and swimming upstream are my obsessions. Rather than ask “what shall I paint” a portrait gives me instant gratification. My temperament and the physicality of painting exerts a pull as I wrestle with my partner, canvas. There is this need to move forward and back, walk away, come back until I exhaust my mental and physical energy. I ask my portrait to speak to me, and sometimes I am lied to.

But for all our obsessions or passions, I find it is the rare artist who can talk eloquently in public about him/herself; those who teach feel the most comfortable. I ask should public speaking be a required course for artists? I put on my docent shoes, for those artists unable to speak about their obsessions. Museum visitors come with all sorts of knowledge and baggage and I have learned that there are times when I step in or times I just get out of the way. How nice to be a conduit between humanity and artists’ obsessions.

Ida Kotyuk, September 20, 2009 ©

Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin

There is little that is more pleasurable than, once a month, spending 90 minutes with like-minded fans; in my case, our local public library’s mystery book club. This assemblage is one of the longest running in this area with a membership of four to eight or more adults. Yes, a small group but a diverse and rotating group, and a group where each individual is free to speak his or her mind. In June our library selected Ariana Franklin’s “Mistress of the Art of Death.” After reading the book, we usually say yea or nay. Some have a reason for yea or nay, others not too sure “but just couldn’t get into the book after several pages.”

It’s amazing how murder and mayhem triggers open discussion not necessarily relevant to the book, but some sentence or idea prompts a personal insight into ourselves. Many times it is the “nay” in books and life that teaches me most about myself. I am forced to put my ideas into words and I learn who I am and what I believe in. This theme is a repeated lifetime experience.

For our monthly meetings I rate the selected books on a scale of one to ten, one being the poorest or least enjoyed and 10 being the best or most satisfying. Usually I give authors an eight or more if I see diligent thought and intelligence in plotting and characterization, respecting any author who “always” writes with the reader in mind; what a pleasure to find an author who speaks to us.

I do this exercise for the mystery book club, because, in addition to pushing and testing myself, it helps me to become immersed in the author’s mind and subsequently come to know my own mind. This effort carries elsewhere in my reading, and like most exercise, then helps me to cull the unrewarding books quickly.

In June I assigned “Mistress of the Art of Death” an eight of the 10 and wrote eight reasons describing why I enjoyed the book and two reasons why did not.

Reason 1: Both reader and the heroine arrive together in a strange (to her) country, England, after the murders.

Reason 2: The horrible events of mutilated children occur offstage. I find no pleasure in entering the mind of the killer nor the mind of the child as the mutilation takes place. I am of that group of humanity who find no titillation in the harming or suffering of others.

Reason 3:  The author makes the heroine unique to her time, a civilized outsider, who is a forensic scientist; thereby, I, a contemporary reader, see and experience 1147 England and better identify with and understand the heroine.

Reason 4. For the above reason the author gets an extra plus for producing the heroine after the rioting, after the time of grieving, and I saw the mutilations through the cooler eyes of a caring forensic scientist; thereby distancing me, the reader, from violent gore.

Reason 5.  I was further drawn deeper into 1147 England by the manner in which the author exposes the culture of superstition surrounding our heroine and its impact on daily living.

Reason 6: It was satisfying to watch the heroine mature and find her own identity as well as the murderer as she was tested by that culture.

Reason 7: I enjoyed seeing a clever king, Henry II, who cares about his people and becomes involved with his people’s concerns. It is easy to cliché a heartless king.

Reason 8: The author kept the story moving forward within a time and culture deemed backward and did not hang me up on page after page of explanation.

Reason 9: Having said the above, there were words too unique to the period. Written by an English author, there are a number of words, which this American did not recognize and had never heard; unlike someone who has grown up within that culture, a culture familiar with the terms though no longer heard or seen. Though a dictionary lover my having to look up words slowed my reading when an additional identifying word would have been helpful; i.e., a tabard cloak or clothing.

Ida Kotyuk, July 11, 2009 ©

Chicken With Its Head Cut Off

One day, many years ago, while still living in Chicago, I approached one more new receptionist in one more new dentist’s office, in the hope that if I change my tormentor the next torment will be gentle. Nearing what appeared to be a bullet-proof window I wondered if dentists were under threat from some unknown radical clients, having heard that dentists (at that time) had the highest alcoholic and suicide rates. As I stood before that glass window the receptionist glanced down at her appointment book, then up at me, and asked for my name.

“Ida Kotyuk,” I tell her.

“God! I would kill for that name,” she said.

Puzzling and odd…did she mean Ida or did she mean the family name Kotyuk?

My first memory that would define my idea of family and family names took place when we visited my father’s brothers in Michigan. I must have reached the age of consciousness because I remember that day to this moment, vividly. Two events occurred—

The first remembered event was my father walking into that Michigan living room, one brother following after another, then another, then another, six brothers in all; my uncles! I was stunned, astonished, astounded, bewildered, and staggered (I was a child after all) to see the family resemblance. If you do not grow up within a large extended family, you do not experience, and therefore are unaware of, physical family traits, dominant genes at work, mirroring each other. As I looked at one uncle after another, I was hard pressed to single out my father. They all had the same height, coloring, and characteristics: swarthy, black haired, the same deep blue eyes. I grew up hearing I did not look like either parent and assumed my parents did not look like anyone else; but in that Michigan living room, at that moment, I understood why my small family puzzled as to how I did not resemble neither mother, nor father, nor brother.

The second event of that day was the brothers’ discussion of our family name. Europeans understand that when a family name is Barbour or Barber that family worked as barbers. Americans understand that the spelling of family names have lost their importance because, as families came into this new country to settle, immigration officials would translate foreign sounding names into phonetic letters. In those few moments on Ellis Island, one or two strokes of a pen severed family connections as families lost the familiarity of their shared spellings.

In Michigan, the discussion went on for hours until one uncle finally admitted to researching and investigating the name Kotyuk and what it might mean. He knew that “tyuk” in Hungarian meant “hen” and he thought “kot” could be “to cut.” As the family Kotyuk had been farmers, and like many farmers also raised chickens, he determined that Kotyuk meant “chicken with its head cut off” (which leads to a thousand stories for another time).

I never objected to the name Kotyuk, I considered marriage would change that for me, but I disliked the name Ida; especially while growing up with other school children called Buffy, Suzie, or some other popular white-bread name. Ida Kotyuk sounds like a chemist, an astronomer, a scientist, a drudge; anything but a portrait painter.

But this dentist’s receptionist would “kill” for my name? “Why,” I ask?

She tells me she is helping her brother the dentist, but she is a painter with the common white-bread name similar to Mary Smith. To standout from the Mary Smith crowd she signs her name Maryy Smith, Mary Smythe, M.Smith, mSmith, etc. You get the idea.

“When you sign your canvases, no one will confuse you with anyone else.”

Ida Kotyuk, © June 26, 2009