​Epic Summer 2019
Part 1 - June
Get on the plane, get on the plane – my mantra. After a brutal spring semester of learning and teaching Prehistoric Art to Early Renaissance, two other lectures, and Poetry and Painting at Donovan State Prison, I was a complete mess. Add on an unexpected death of a soulmate and know that I was broken.
I got on the plane.
First stop Boston, MA where my mother was waiting for me as she recovered from her second major operation in six months. The plan was to get to Maine, to the island, to recuperate – however she wasn’t up for it. We sat in the cold and the rain in Boston and tried to be cheery. Not quite the epic start to my three-month adventure – but honestly breathing was an accomplishment for me at this time.
We finally made it north to open the house. The courts weren’t up and it was too cold to swim; the island was quiet. I slept a lot and tried to be still and to regain some sense sanity. We stayed a week. We played a lot of scrabble, talked about what we would do to the house, and then we both headed back to Boston.
Another day, another adventure, Michigan. I had a complete meltdown on the way to the airport and questioned if I should even go, I was too sad and didn’t want to be a downer. My mother told me to trust my friends – so I got on the plane. The fun began at Detroit National Airport where I landed for the annual T-5, now T-8, summit at Walloon Lake, Michigan. I had a two hour wait until a fellow TrinTrin pal landed and our hostess came to retrieve us – just enough time to slam down all the wine at the airport bar. I was a party unto myself and continued to hydrate with more wine at our stopover house where I vaguely remember a Bruins game, yes, I was a dream house guest. At 6am I forced myself up and crawled into a vehicle, which was larger than my studio, for our journey north. That effort exhausted me so I slept for the first hour. When I woke, I immediately began praying that I would not die from a hangover as I simultaneously willed myself not to throw-up for the next 3 hours. Jeanine and Donna wisely ignored me in the backseat.
Three diet Pepsi’s, a box of red vines and a bag of Ruffles later, we arrived at Walloon Lake – honestly, I am not sure where it is and I don’t think I could find it on a map, but it is a piece of paradise in northern Michigan. This was a reunion of eight great female college friends including a kickass hostess, two boats, a lake, nature, and a house the size of a Marriott Marquis, what was not to love! Jeanine dropped us off and went to retrieve the other 5 who dared the blue skies in a puddle jumper; I power napped and vowed never to drink again which lasted a good three hours until the mini greyhound SUV pulled into the driveway and the real party began.
It was magic. The moment we all came together, the second we were all in one space, the stars aligned and the universe lit up.  For six days we laughed, we sang and danced, we walked, ran, boated and floated, we ate, we drank. Those whose drink choice was LaCroix sparking waters were our “historians” in charge of remembering events; they were also in charge of driving the minibus when the weather didn’t allow us to motorboat to the club for dinner. Our days and nights were filled with music. DJJ had the perfect playlist and we were the envy of all the other boats on the lake – no doubt they thought we were the Go-Go’s reunited or at the very least Bruce Springsteen’s backup singers. We rocked it.
My heart was shattered going into this week. My friends gave me the gifts of laughter and love and my heart grew and I will forever be grateful. Next stop Europe!
 

​Double Whammy
Tough Monday – I was the victim of a burglary –the prison guards informed me that it was not a robbery because a gun was not involved. It happened at my studio - a quick trip to the bathroom, door unlocked, and some dickhead comes in and steals a bunch of stuff. Fortunately our paths didn’t cross. The dickhead wasted no time and within 10 minutes was using my credit cards at Ralph's, CVS and Home Depot. Ugh. I waited all day for the police to arrive but apparently they were having a tough Monday as well and my burglary was not top priority.
With a stiff upper lip I forged onto teaching the night class at the prison.
The deal at the prison is usually the guards are not so warm and fuzzy – I get the impression that they are not thrilled with our program of bringing the arts into prison – they are polite but never chatty.  Monday was a different deal.  At every check point I informed each guard that I was robbed! Rather burgled!  And now I was in prison! The irony of it all! I had their full attention. They were sympathetic, supportive, eager to offer advice and engaged.  For this I was thankful, because apparently for this job I signed a “non-negotiable” clause – I will sign anything, but damn, I would like to be negotiated for. Now at least the guards now know who I am and hopefully will keep an extra eye out for me.
When the class arrived and I told the students, the prisoners – who are robbers, murders, rapists - that I was the victim of a burglary. I told them how lucky I was not to have bumped into the dickhead because who knows what could have happened! They too were sympathetic, supportive, and eager to offer advice – go figure.
I then attempted to teach 3 point perspective, a tricky concept on the best of days, I was a bit distracted.
At the end of the cluster f@)*# of the dreaded 3 point perspective lesson, everyone was checking back in their pencils, erasers and rulers, when I noticed a pencil sharpener was missing. My ace supervisor Stephanie and I searched high and low and it was nowhere to be found. The guys searched – honestly – class is held in a barren gym - there are not a lot of places it would have gone. The guys were getting visibly upset and asking if we were going to report this and did we understand the consequences to them if we did report it – searches and lock down – a big deal. At this point the guards started to gather, first two and then word got out and there were 4.
I took center stage, “How could this be? Two burglaries in one day? Why am I still in prison?” The guards started sharing their stories while the students were trying not to have nervous breakdowns. Several guys came up to me with inside info as to who they suspected took the pencil sharpener. It was all out of my hands and I was too busy chatting.
Then, in the final minute, just before Lock Down was to be imposed, two students came busting back into the gym and slammed down the pencil sharpener. Before anyone could say anything they kept repeating, “We got it, we won’t snitch!”
My ace supervisor Stephanie looked wildly relieved; the paper work would have been in her court. Two guards inspected the   pencil sharpener to make sure the blade was still intact, case closed.
Finally I was out of prison.
As I was getting in my car the police finally called regarding my burglary. I told them I was driving home from prison – don’t know if they got the humor. I wish someone would show up at my door with my stolen goods - I wouldn’t snitch on them.

Last week I participated in the San Diego Art Fair. Normally I wouldn’t give this event the time of day mainly for the fact that it was drilled into me at Pratt not to “pay to play”; however, a booth was thrown our way for free and I was lucky to be in the company of five other fab women who had also been SD Art Prize recipients. At a pre-event happy hour the PR people made big promises while they worked hard to get artists to sign up for $3,000 to $7,000 booths, “You will be surrounded by quality people who want to purchase art. We only curate the best of the best to enter this show.” The snake oil sales pitch was not wildly impressive and they blatantly ignored my question about what specific galleries were participating but they did serve wine.
The weekend came and off we went to the Del Mar Fair Grounds for 4 days of art fun - 5 artists, one booth with hopes of selling some art.
We took turns manning the booth and tried to overlap with each other so that we had company. I brought my B+ game, along with a needed bottle of wine for me and Anna because the free wine tasting booth cut us off after two shots of rose, and I managed to hang there for my slotted times. I was much better at pushing my friends art, my sales pitch was spot on for them.  I was also excellent at leading people into the awesome Oslo Sardine Bar, although I did have a bit of PTS with flashbacks of childhood sardine sandwiches but I worked through that. The real problem was watching people walk on by, not a nod, not a comment.  I certainly walked by other peoples booths, a quick glance and a snap judgment and I was past it. Yet I couldn’t fathom people walking past ours - all the art we had in there - paintings, prints, sculptures, mobile art, cutouts  and an offering of peppermint patties and yet not a reaction from many – being ignore threw me.
Sure there were a handful of sales and many compliments, but it got me thinking about what I walk by.
Then I realized that I walk past people. I walk past people who live on the streets. I may nod, or not, but I walk past their worlds. I felt invisible in a booth; I have no concept of how these people feel on the street.  
I will do better.
Art Fair – great lessons learned – a great success!!

I vividly recall watching the Anita Hill hearings. I was glued to the TV.  I knew she was telling the truth. I remember looking at the committee and listening to their questions and it was obvious to me that they also knew she was telling the truth. My heart and a bit of me broke when they ignored her and put that disgrace of a man on the Supreme Court. I felt sucker punched and a seed of disgust towards those who are indifferent towards women was planted in my soul.
Kavanaugh, another predator who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the butt, won his bid for the Supreme Court. His anger was rewarded.  Again, I felt broken.
Michelle encourages us to “go high when they go low” – but when hope is in the gutter that is no easy task.
Tough times, heavy on the heart.
A life-raft was thrown my way when a friend wisely stated, “Art is the answer.”
Back to work.

​RE-entry shock
The end of summer.  It happens every year, but this year has been a particular pisser.
How does one adjust from lollygagging on an island in Maine to walking into a high security men’s state prison?  For me? Not well.
No sense describing idyllic island life in detail other than to say my days consisted of tennis, scrabble, beach and cocktails - all accompanied by endless chat – repeated like Ground Hog Day for the better part of 3 months.  I would have stayed until the water got turned off but this job gig required my attention, “Poetry and Painting”….in prison.
It was not a good sign that it took two days to get back west. Thankful little Lucy shared her room so I didn’t have to sleep on an airport floor. (Note to self, book morning flights).Once I was physically west I tried, actually it was a pathetically weak attempt at pretending to try, to wrap my head around going back to prison. It was no use; I was in a self-induced coma. Shortly after landing I went through the motions and put on my required all back outfit, no colors that could be associated with any gangs, and headed east. I reluctantly drove into the apocalyptic abyss - cement surrounded by a lot of barbwire. Ugh. I passed the security check, met my co-worker, and headed through more security checks and into the yard. If aliens had come down and taken me to planet Zorba I would have been less shell-shocked than walking into the yard. Again, this was not my first excursion there but every time I walk into the place I know that I am walking into an alternate universe.
So, there we stood in the yard, waiting for the students to get out of the dinner hall, get checked out of their cells, and come to the gym for class. Normally we would have waited in the gym however it was at least 1,000 degrees in there - and more disturbingly the gym was housing a man in a cage - yes, a half dressed man in a cage – a bit more than I could handle at that point so we waited outside.
Over an hour later the gym was clear and the 25 students filtered in;  I put on my game face and gave the game plan about visually interpreting the poetry of Robert Frost.  What do I know about Robert Frost? Not much but am working on it. The students seemed interested and happy about this project so I felt a bit better as the class progressed.
I drove home and stayed in my self-induced coma for several days. I didn’t want to accept the fact that summer ended and I had responsibilities other than being on time for tennis. I am slowly coming out of it and accepting my new norm. In another week I am sure I will embrace my new norm. I am very grateful for my jobs and the opportunities they present that allow me to contribute to society - and to escape for 3 months. At least that is what I keep telling myself. 
Class 1 down, 19 to go.
Goodbye summer.

​Family Members Off Leash
My father is an impulsive man. He is never one to think things through. He makes passionate and impractical decisions all the time. To this day, at 86, he is a handsome man, a Paul Newman type, with a twinkle in his eye.  My mother says, “He is the best looking person in the family” and there is no dispute as my brother and sister and I nod our heads in agreement.  His charm and looks have served him well throughout life.
My dad was a high school English teacher outside of Boston. It was the perfect job for a man who loves to talk and entertain. In his classroom he had set and captive audiences who no doubt looked at him in awe while waiting and wondering what was going to come out his mouth next.  A class scheduled about Romeo and Juliet could be sidelined by an hour dissertation about his tennis game.
Having lost his only brother to a sniper bullet late in WWII, my dad was vehemently opposed to any war. During the Vietnam War error he went on a mission to keep young men away from war. He promoted the educational deferment to his student’s and he would proclaim to his classes, “Everyone is going to college.” He literally kept stacks of Bunker Hill Community College applications in his desk drawer. These were for the students who were not necessarily college bound – my dad would write the application - track down the student and have them sign it, then my dad would mail it in for them.
Life is a performance piece for my dad.  He sees himself as always being on stage. When he steps off an airplane or into a room he starts to dance thinking “this is my entrance.” The man lives for an audience.
Growing up with a one man show was forever entertaining as well as exhausting. Our dinners were insane with my dad acting out his day, reciting poetry and singing songs. No one could get a word in, it was all about him. I did look at him with awe because he made life so alive, but there was no space for anyone else. As a kid I often hibernated in my room with dozen of stuffed animals just to get some peace and quiet and to be in my own world where no one spoke.
As an adult, I needed not to be Bob Horne’s daughter so I moved across country. This was over 20 years ago and I still feel guilty for abandoning my parents, it is all my guilt -  but more often I am happy that I can breathe.
At 55 years old my dad retired. He claimed that he would pick up other jobs. But his Attention Deficit Disorder always led him to run wild, look for new audiences and adventures. His escape vehicle was his bike. He started out on loose group trips – the main one RAGBRAI –an annual bike ride across the state of Iowa – talk about a marketing coo – this ride is a combination Burning Man, Woodstock, and outward bound – in Iowa. My dad would drive the 1,200 miles out there, bike 500 miles, then drive 1,200 miles home. It was a mecca for him – Boston Bob was a fixture at RAGBRAI for many years.
When there wasn’t a group trip he would go solo. His trips are legendary and impressive in there insanity. One August my brother drove from Boston to Arizona for school, my dad gamely went along, with his bike. In the middle of nowhere in Texas he said, “pull over, this looks good.” He got out, got on his bike and started peddling east towards Boston. My brother continued driving west while looking in his rearview mirror watching him get smaller and smaller. On this trip he bragged that he slept in cemeteries because they were safe and quiet – he would say, “no one is going to bother you in a cemetery”. Over 1,000 miles later, 1,000 miles, the man ended up in Chicago before he got tired and hopped a flight home.
On impulse he would bring home new/used cars, random gadgets, and periodically dogs. Our dogs were treasured members of the family and lived long and happy lives – mainly because we were all home to look after the dog.
My dad found the family’s new dog at the pound.
He claims that he simply stopped to say hello to the dogs…. Then, without hesitation, without consulting his wife, without thinking of any consequences, the man with the attention span of a gnat picked up the fluffy one, Cocoa, and brought him home.
Like my dad, Cocoa was beautiful. He stopped traffic. This was in the 90’s, pre- designer animals; by today’s standards he would have a $3000 price tag and be called a purebred Golden-doodle. He had the fluff, the sashay, the complete rock star attitude….he was also a loose cannon. With my dad and Cocoa the planets had aligned for these two kindred, unleashed, characters to come together – no one knew who was leading who around or who was more out of control.
When the snow melted and the roads cleared my dad was off again – Newfoundland was calling so he decided to bike there, 967 miles. My mom was in charge but she worked full time. Cocoa was often home alone - there was no fence, no borders, no boundaries – no supervision.  And in harmony with my father’s life, no one ever said no to Cocoa, he went where he wanted to go and do whatever he wanted to do. It was a miracle that he came home at night.
Unfortunately, for my father and Cocoa good looks and charm can’t cover bad behavior.
Cocoa’s life crashed first.
Cocoa was off leash. He tangled with a neighbor walking her dog on leash. She got knocked down, smacked her face. A trip to the hospital was needed, the police were called.
Cocoa’s world crumbled, he was now wanted by the law.
Cocoa was in serious, serious trouble. Cocoa was sent to the vet until things got sorted out.
Things got messy fast. The injured neighbor refused any apology and directed all communication to their lawyer. The neighbor wanted immediate action. They petitioned around the neighborhood for Cocoa to be put down - not one neighbor signed. The injured party was not deterred, she wanted the death penalty for Cocoa and she went back to the police and the vet in further attempts to get Cocoa put down - no one budged.
As a family it was decided Cocoa needed to get out of dodge. My dad broke Cocoa free and headed north to Maine - we all knew that Cocoa needed to go far away or he would try to come find us –the hope was that a friend or friend of a friend, or honestly anyone in the state of Maine would take Cocoa. As charming as my dad is, and he is incredibly charming, it was beyond even his capabilities to give away a dog with a pending law suit. Back he came with Cocoa.
Both my parents were defeated, emotionally exhausted, and nervous as tics.  As the youngest I am the fixer in the family and I wanted to give them a break. My brother and I were living 3,000 miles away in California. I called them and said, “Robert and I can take Cocoa for a while.” An hour later Cocoa was booked on American Airline flight # 186 landing in San Diego at 2:10 the next day.
Robert and I lived in an apartment. We had no yard and no idea if dogs were allowed. But we were game. We became a dog tag team and took turns running miles with him around Crown Point, taking him to doggie beach, bringing him with us everywhere, Cocoa had a lovely break and adapted very well to life southern Cal. 
Six months later the coast was cleared after Cocoa’s lawsuit was settled for $80,000. My parent’s made assurances to their dismayed homeowner’s insurance agent that Cocoa would be secured in the yard with an electric fence. Cocoa finally had set boundaries. The reality was that the boundaries calmed him down, he had structure, and along with age, Cocoa mellowed.  
My dad was late in getting any boundaries. At age 65 and after 42 years of marriage, he left my mom and Cocoa and dismantled our family – his goodbye letter written on a napkin left on the kitchen counter stated, “moving north”. He found a new audience in a younger woman. When he left it broke us all. I took a time-out and didn’t speak to him for three years. I traveled to faraway places and found happiness with my own adventures. My silence to my dad was my power, it was the only thing I could control with him and it was also my punishment to him.
As in life, time helped, time healed. My anger and hurt shrunk and love and forgiveness prevailed.
My dad’s relationship with his girlfriend didn’t last but he was happy with other new audiences and new freedoms. He didn’t have a care in the world. He reveled in the fact that he had no responsibilities; not even to himself. He refused to take any medication. His high spirits and energies and passions also brought high blood pressure, after six mini strokes his brain was altered.
My dad now lives in an assisted living dementia unit.
Even in his current state he talks to anyone within reach and he entertains the other residents by playing the piano and singing songs. He cheats at Bingo so the he can give the prizes to the ladies.
He still believes he is on stage. Just the other day he called and said, “I am going to sing you a song and I want you to record it” – I played along and gave him the go ahead to start singing. He then proceeded to sing Danny Boy. I wish I did know how to record it because he really is a beautiful singer. When he was done he gave me permission to post it on youtube and generously told me to keep whatever money it earned.
I am happy to hear his voice whenever he calls. He tells me that when the snow melts he is getting out of there, breaking free. He plans to put his Vespa and his bike back on the road and he will be mobile again. But his boundaries are set; his days of roaming are done. Cocoa lived until 16, we still talk in awe about his adventures and his wild spirit. My dad, secured and confined in his new home, still sings, talks, writes stories and dreams about leaving convention and responsibility behind to go on new adventures – in his world he is forever unleashed.
 

• COVER STORIES

Check Out My Sizzle Reel

By Horne Prudence, Jan. 11, 2012
I wanted to be the Julia Child of the art world. I would bring fabulous art and artists into your living room — inspiration was on its way! How hard could it be to get an art show on television? It was an obvious omission and a tremendous opportunity. I had a spot for my Emmy picked out.
I started my research, and after a five-minute Google search (“San Diego television art shows”) found that San Diego had no such show. Easy breezy, I thought, and formed a game plan: I would start out locally, just like Julia, get a following, and put the art of San Diego on the map. After local (and immediate) success, I would then move to a national/international audience, all the while never forgetting my roots and pimping out our great city. I would be the artist from San Diego discovering art wherever it might be, making the art world accessible and enlightening all. I would be an ambassador for art. Soon enough, I’d be on Dancing with the Stars.
Ten minutes’ more research and I discovered that I wouldn’t be breaking new ground after all. There have been two previous successes featuring art on TV at a worldwide level. Rather than being disappointed, I decided to take this as exciting news.
The Oprah of the TV art world was Bob Ross. Mention art and TV in the same sentence and without a doubt the “man with the afro” will come up. Bob Ross was a legend; his PBS show Joy of Painting reached 93.5 million households. With his calm demeanor and smooth voice, in 26 minutes he would miraculously paint happy clouds, pretty mountains, or some other picturesque scene. Bob died in 1995, yet Bob Ross Incorporated is still successful: his art kits, video lessons, T-shirts, and instruction books sell very well.

Everyone knows the secret in Hollywood — little people with big heads. They look great on film. I am an average person with an average head.
IMAGE BY HOWIE ROSEN
The other tour de force was Sister Wendy, the art-history world’s favorite nun. Her BBC series Sister Wendy’s Story of Painting was a hit, and she had a large following in Europe and the States. Sister Wendy left the world of television in 1997 and now lives a life of solitude.
So, with the main competition no longer alive — and Sister Wendy focused on her prayers — I saw my opening. Painting with Prudence would take the TV world by storm! The show would make art exciting and fun. I’d travel the world looking at great art; I’d talk to artists, visit museums and galleries and fabulous locations — oh, and I’d throw in a few art tips and lessons along the way. Like Julia, I’d be a charming snob, one who would educate the world and make the arts cool.
I assembled my team. My friend Jim had recently moved from San Diego to Dallas, his head spinning from a recent divorce. Lacking a full-time job, he jumped right in. Jim came with over 20 years’ experience as a writer and creative director at top advertising agencies.
My 75-year-old mother, who lives in Boston, was also on board. In her late 60s, my mother had enrolled in a Dreamweaver web-design course at Harvard Extension. During her first class, she called me up and whispered into the phone, “I am the oldest one here — older than the professor.” I pretended shock, then instructed her to stop messing around, turn off her cell phone, and focus on the class. When she completed it, she called to proudly tell me that other students had dropped out, but she had prevailed. With credentials and no salary demands, my mom was our official web designer.
I, of course, was the “talent,” an MFA from Pratt Institute, a professional artist “with an eye for adventure,” living in San Diego. With no money, no salaries, and basically no clue, we three set to work.
Jim and I educated ourselves by purchasing a “TV Pitch School,” home-study course (pitching is Hollywood-speak for presenting and selling a show concept). The 15 audio CDs from Mark and Jeanne Simon taught us “how to pitch like a pro.” From the audio CDs we learned that a sizzle reel was mandatory.
A sizzle reel is similar to a short commercial and is used to present a show concept to networks, producers, production companies, and agents. We needed a sizzle, and we needed it soon.
Jim jumped at the chance to leave Texas. He flew west for five days of location shooting. I expanded the team and called in two additional friends to help out — Chip Halsey and Walid Romaya. Chip had graduated from UCLA in 1980 with a minor in Film Studies. He wrote, directed, and co-produced his own feature called The Groundskeeper. Now he works in real estate, and with the market moving at a snail’s pace, he had time to kill. Chip was great at keeping us focused, asking pertinent questions such as: “Exactly what are we doing here?” and “What is this all about?”
Walid, also a businessman and want-to-be reality-TV person, has a show and business called The Prince of Wines. Walid came with an abundance of reality-TV chops and graciously shared his expertise. Most importantly, Walid came with a camera.
Let the games begin.
Day 1. We began filming in my teeny tiny 250-square-foot studio in Little Italy. With three men and me in the small space, it was beyond cramped, and the men had to take turns in the studio. Jim was keen on showing the romance of being an artist. He wanted to capture every inch of the space; lighting and sound strategies were discussed and analyzed. They filmed paint tubes, brushes, paintings, and books. My terrace garden was sure to be a highlight and selling point, so the team climbed out my window and jumped onto the not-so-stable tar-paper roof to film. Horticulturists, don’t get excited: my garden consists of a few potted plants positioned to break up the monotony of the gray rooftop and cinder blocks. But Chip and Walid were pros, and they had the ladder out, shooting film from all angles while Jim kept an eye out for incoming aircraft. He shouted, “Cut — incoming!” often. I was busy perfecting my enthusiastic and welcoming hand movements, sort of a ta-da! motion meant to imply, Look, sitting on tar paper under the flight path is fabulous. Fun fun fun!
I was feeling great about life until later that night when we sat down to watch the reels. Reality hit me, and I went into shock. Seriously, what was I thinking? I looked like an idiot. I was an idiot. Obviously, I’d failed to think this brilliant idea through. I wasn’t even remotely comfortable being on film. (Jim said, “Wow, high definition is not kind to you.”) Here’s a Hollywood secret: little people with big heads look great on film. I am an average person with an average head — disastrous! What we needed was a hot 20-year-old who could step in and take over the role.
Jim, despite his far-from-comforting observation, wouldn’t hear of it. He’d determined that my whack-a-doodle life was the story and that was what we were going to sell. There was no time for my insecurities and angst. I put on a brave face and prayed for softer lighting. The team was counting on me. In the future, I would not be so easily flustered. I would forge onward and channel Julia.

IMAGE BY HOWIE ROSEN
Day 2. We hit the road. Jim liked to film what he called “eye candy.” He wasn’t referring to me — we popped up to La Jolla. We did shots of driving down Prospect Street, sitting at the Children’s pool, and chatting it up with tourists. We shot scenes at the MCA (Museum of Contemporary Art) and La Valencia. Chip was angling the shots, while Jim told what to say and do. We filmed the waves, me painting the waves, me talking to the seals, talking to dogs, me waving while driving, me eating, me sitting and laughing — we did it all. I changed outfits in Gaylord, my Miata, so that every shot looked like another day, another time. Day two went very well, and I was gaining a bit of confidence, I was wondering what designer I would wear for my Good Morning America interview.
Day 3 brought glitches. Like any production (I assumed), things did not run smoothly; my experienced volunteer San Diego crew had to get back to their paying jobs. The camera went with them. Jim, who’d declared himself producer and director, took charge, bought a camera. Filming continued. Next stop, Old Town. Jim’s theory was that Old Town had a similar look to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Never having been to San Miguel, I couldn’t dispute this. So I was filmed walking around random buildings, shaking maracas, and pretending to be in Mexico. Frida Kahlo would have been proud.
From there we moved to Balboa Park, where we filmed the fountains, the rose garden, statues, and the cactus garden. It was during the cactus-garden scene that Jim said, “Your shirt makes you look like a disciple of General Mao.”
Another Miata outfit change, and we filmed more of Prudence painting, Prudence chatting, Prudence laughing, Prudence walking, Prudence driving. We took enough footage for ten complete episodes.
The next challenge was to transfer the film onto the computer, a task that was out of my league and that baffled Jim. I enlisted a former student, Jake. Jake’s mom let us hang out at her house while Jim and Jake toiled away. I made food and soda runs.
Day 4. It was time to work on the voiceover. This was trickier than expected and gave me a whole new appreciation for TV commercials. Jim found his directorial mojo and had no trouble voicing his opinion. Apparently, I am Sybil and have multiple voices. Jim yelled, “Get rid of Little Debbie! Sound normal!”
It was painful to repeat lines such as “My new TV show is a fun mix of painting, travel, and adventure to entertain and inspire you.” It had everything but the kitchen sink. Jim kept his patience; I kept (some of) my sanity. But it was taxing all around.
Jim took the material back to Dallas with him. At this point, my ace producer/director unleashed a bit of a bad attitude and started whining. Granted, he hadn’t expected to have to learn computer-editing and sound skills. We couldn’t find a film editor on craigslist who wanted to work for free, so I told him he had to figure it out. I tried to be as supportive, even sending off a book on the basics of film editing. Still, Jim moaned and groaned for three weeks straight. I wasn’t expecting to have to edit this stuff…I don’t know how to add music to a video. Blah blah blah.
Meanwhile, I was busy living my life as an artist. We needed my story. I may have had only the one title, but it was a crucial one.
Miraculously, Jim figured everything out. He took over ten hours of film and pieced it together into a two-minute, 30-second sizzle reel. Jim also wrote a “one sheet” (Hollywood-speak: a one-page advertisement for the show). He came up with catchy slogans. “How far will she go to inspire you?” and “Enjoy the ride!” I feared that these made me sound like a hooker looking for action, but Jim was proud of his work. Who was I to question my producer/director/editor/marketer? He’d put in long, hard hours with no pay. So I went with it.
Back in Boston, my web-master mom secured and created a web page. She was a champ, and survived me and Jim giving her orders left and right. There were a few hiccups. YouTube was new to her; putting a video on the site was a challenge. She called in her team, neighbor Tom and friend Dave, and they all worked it out. The web page, with its YouTube link, was up and running.
Another lesson learned from the 15-CD home-study course was the importance of attending conferences: these were necessary to sell the show. The conferences come with a heavy price tag — a $500–$600 entrance fee per person. Our commitment to the project was solid, so we anted up. Armed with a working web page, catchy business cards, folders with personalized labels, and new shoes (for me), we felt prepared and confident.
Our first conference was in Santa Monica. We had done our homework and knew who we wanted to meet and pitch to. We targeted various companies and networks. But as soon as we walked in the door, I felt as if I’d landed on Mars. I actually lost my breath. I was sure I’d throw up. Not only was I universes outside my comfort zone, I was clearly out of my league with these Los Angeles TV-types.
Jim, on the other hand, in his Versace shirt, strutted in as if he owned the place. He was in his element. “I am with my people,” he said. Then he said, “I am going to make more money than you are, because I have more titles.” A Hollywood tycoon was evolving before my eyes.

The Hammering Man sculpture in La Jolla. Jim liked to film what he called “eye candy,” and he wasn’t referring to me.
IMAGE BY HOWIE ROSEN
Again, I tried to channel Julia for support, and then some dude from the Kardashian clan walked past me, and I had to sit down. I mulled over my options. I could throw up, smack Jim on the head, cry, and go home. Or I could rally.
I rallied. People need art; it was my duty to move forward. For two days, we pitched to anyone and everyone. We attended every talk, cocktail hour, and informational meeting. We met executives at top networks, production-company owners, agents, and interns. Jim stalked an Oprah person in the men’s room. We worked every angle. The feedback we got was tremendous. Great show, wonderful idea, great story, best pitch ever! It was a love fest, and although we had no offers, we felt giddy and proud.
One of the lessons of the business is that a “no” is better than a “maybe.” In Hollywood, “taking a pass” means a no. We had very few no’s and many “re-directs” — we repeatedly heard “It’s made for PBS,” “Go talk to Bravo,” “Have you hit Discovery?”
We followed through on everything.
We also had our share of people trying to redefine our show. A woman from Style Network told us that their most popular show was Ruby. She explained that Ruby is an obese woman and “If Ruby eats, Ruby will die!” The Style woman eagerly looked at me. “What are you going to do? Where is your life-and-death drama?”
When I said that I wasn’t prepared to chop off my ear, Jim jumped in. “The airplanes fly very low across her studio. It’s just a matter of time before one crashes on her head.”
Style Network took a pass.
From the beginning, Jim and I differed in thoughts about where the show should be marketed. I was keen on selling it locally, especially trying for KPBS, while Jim wanted to hit it out of the park and get a national network. After that first day of filming, I didn’t feel ready to deliver a show on a national level; I wanted to get more — or any — experience and build from there. “This is our first painting,” I said. “We can’t expect it to go straight into the MOMA. First, we need to get into a local group show.”
Jim didn’t see where he fit in on the local level. But after attending our second conference, we still had no buyers, so Jim took a closer look at PBS. They were offering a national competition for a new TV show under something called the Diversity and Innovation Fund. I am an educated white woman. I play tennis and summer in Maine. There is nothing diverse about me. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t talk Jim out of this one.

One network executive plainly stated, “Look, art is a gamble. We are all praying to keep hold of our jobs.”
IMAGE BY HOWIE ROSEN
Jim’s neighbor in Dallas, a lesbian, had produced a show or two on PBS, and he got her on board for the project, awarding her several titles. So now our “diversity” consisted of two educated, white, straight people and an educated white lesbian (from Texas!) and a show about art. Jim put everything on hold to wait for the results. When the rejection came, he was devastated. I was shocked he was shocked. He wanted to try to continue to work with his neighbor, but she stopped returning his calls.
Three conferences later, we were all the wiser, a bit beaten up…and still not on the air. The sad lesson we learned was that the arts are a tough sell, not a priority for television. If I could gain, lose, and again gain 300 pounds while painting, well, that is a show that might sell. Or maybe I could participate in a death-defying stunt while in a museum. Apparently, my life needed to be in danger.
The mother of all meetings, which Jim worked hard to get, was with the Discovery Channel. Jim had visions of Painting with Prudence airing right before Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations. The Discovery Channel said that they would not touch art or a female host. One network executive told us: “Look, art is a gamble. We’re all praying to keep hold of our jobs. Right now no one is thinking outside the box.” Jim lost a bit of steam. He headed back to Dallas. I headed back to my apartment under the flight path.
Deterred, stymied, discouraged, but not beaten, we hold our heads high. Jim had to get a paying job and was unable to put more time, effort, or money into the project. I needed to focus on painting, on selling some paintings so I could pay my rent on time and stop relying on friends to feed me. When I met up with Walid, Prince of Wine, he gave me a sympathetic look: he understood the toll of putting yourself out there and trying to succeed in a crazy TV world.
I am still under the flight path, still loving my life as an artist. As for Painting with Prudence, once in a while I throw it out on a local push. Just the other day, I sent our package to the Oceanside channel, KOTC. PWP could start there. Who knows?
Check out our handiwork (paintingwithprudence.com) and make sure to click on the sizzle reel. Maybe one day the TV world will tire of the Housewives of New Jersey and be ready to celebrate the arts — with or without me as host. My mom is standing ready to update the web page.

​Open Studio’s – a dreadful and disheartening event in which people wander into my 15’ x 25’ studio chocker block filled with art and ask “What do you pay for this space?”.  I open my door about once every four years because it takes that long for my brain to forget this truly awful experience. This is the scene, lookie-loo’s come in, make a b-line for the food and wine, eat and drink, feel obligated to speak to me and then ask about my rent. Thinking I was clever this time around I made pre-emptive moves and did not offer real food but had a plate of store bought cookies, from the dollar store no less, and I hide the wine – still didn’t work.
Other artists open their studios and it is a building event. Two of my closest friends were down the hall and making a party out of it - buy art for the holidays. They go for the fun factor and are truly not bothered by who drinks their wine. They have better attitudes than I do.
I was sort of hanging in there and sort of trying to be good sport, sort of… I was drinking and pouring the hot cider but my mood was darkening…two hours and fifty minutes, sparse attendance, and barely a comment on my art … I was done. With my eye on the time my game plan was to shut it down at 5pm on the nose, exactly as the invitation stated, “2-5pm”, 5:00 was in sight – but with ten minutes to go I got sucker punched – not with a real-estate inquiry but with a comment on my art. Normally this would be a hallelujah moment and perhaps I was too burned out to appreciate it fully but in all honesty this one did me in. It happened when a mother/daughter team entered my studio, they are friends of my friends down the hall. They eyed my space without asking for the numbers, then they looked at my art – 2 paintings in particular - and the mother declares, “Oh, it is the airport runway, I can see the planes!” I want to be clear, I paint water, I have painted water for years, once in a blue moon I will paint my garden and some plants, but really I am all about water. My paintings are titled, “Water”, “Sea” “Currents”, “Ocean”, there is no pavement involved. Yes they are abstract, but they scream organic, natural, landscapes. The daughter, seeing the look of horror on my face said, “Hey mom, they are titled Sea I and II”.  The mother was not swayed, she saw JetBlue taking off.
Normally I don’t get tweaked by what people see in my art, usually it’s interesting and fun to hear different reactions and perspectives, but I didn’t have it in me to let the planes go – fly away –  my sensitivity chip was tightly wound. I will work on my attitude and get it together for sure four years from now – but at 4:55 I shut it down and drank the wine.
 
 

​Does attempting to cleanup my studio count as a work day? Clearing out my junk folder- 2 seconds, piling oil paints on one side of my work bench, acrylics on another, watercolors in a box – 10 minutes, throwing out healthcare mail and ignoring various bills – that took a substantial amount of time because I got overwhelmed and had to do a youtube 10 minute yoga session to recover, and the grand finale, two trips to the recycling dumpster – another time suck because I felt the need to chat so cornered one of the Indian Motorcycle boys in an attempt to find out about their impending move, I got nothing. Back to recycling, this is a whole other issue; it does not come naturally to me. It’s genetic. My mother struggles with the trash situation. Her upstairs neighbor is forever narking on her to the landlord about her not putting the right things in the right bin – she’s 81, I say cut her some slack.
Francis Bacon’s studio look liked the world paint ball competition was held in a hoarders closet. Trust me, I am not comparing myself to Bacon, I am simply admiring his creative space and questioning if I even feel better with a neater space…not really… maybe… hard to tell.
I spent some time looking at my desk and work bench, and then I was over it. Too late to start painting so I doodled while looking up the cast of Stranger Things – a show I am not overly impressed with but lost in the abyss of teenage life and did not know Nancy and Jonathan were dating in real life - and then tried to collect my thoughts while I doodled more. Do I stick to the game plan? Do I keep at it? Will I move on from “water”? I actually feel like I am finding my ground with water, - ha, I should get that tattooed on my tush – “Finding ground with water”.
No doubt tomorrow will be a great day to create, something.