Nikki Yeager

It's not Texas without a little rodeo in your day and it's not a vacation without Mutton races, bull riding and lots of cowboy butts to look at. 

Which is exactly why my mom and I hit the rodeo the day I landed in Houston. We ate enough chips and salsa to stuff a large pinata, crammed a few chimicangas down our throats and then walked a block to Reliant Center where all the cowboys were practicing lasso swings above their heads and all the sheep (AKA mutton) ran around in circles. 

Before long we were watching cowboys tackle 800lb steer by jumping from horses' backs and bull fighters jump in the path of bulls' horns, barely saving the life of a fallen bull rider.  

Before I go on, let's just note the fact that those boys are no New York men. They live on ranches, can take a cattle horn to the gut any day and barely grimace at a ripped ACL. They have the stoic look of any man who's known tough country life and they've killed their own friends (you know, cows and chickens and what not) for food. Cowboys can take down an animal four times their weight and ride a bull without a trace of fear. Ask them to do a task most New Yorkers would cry about and they'll do it steely faced and calm. In their world, you just do what you need to do.

Oh, and did I mention they rode to Houston on horses and carriages - for real-!?

What an odd state this is. 

Anyways, to break the tension in the regular events the Rodeo has Mutton Races before the big concert at the end. The mutton are sheep (but sheep didn't sound exotic enough so they tossed the name aside) and the riders are [literally] 5 and 6 year old kids. Little toddlers. 

So the rodeo clowns pick the toddlers up and sit them on the mutton backs while the tots hold on for dear life. Then the mutton run to the other side of the pen and whichever kid can hold on to the mutton fur with their little baby hands for the longest wins. 

My mom and I watched as little boys and little girls mounted their mutton and flew off halfway down the pen. We giggled with the crowd when the children were toseed aside and ran away crying (oh how funny crying children seem at a rodeo!) and then, when the one little boy held on all the way to the other side we jumped and cheered and screamed his praises. No wonder cowboys grow up to be tough as nails.

Never mind the fact that anywhere else in the country it'd be considered child abuse... 

Anyways, the thing about sheep is... well... they're stupid. And I don't mean that in the derogatory sense. I mean, quite literally, sheep are dumb as bricks. The way they got the mutton to run while the children held on with all their might was simple. Tie one sheep to the other end of the pen and all the other sheep will urgently sprint to the first individual, making an instant Flock 'o' Sheep. If the first sheep moves, all the others follow. If the first sheep runs into a wall and then stands there staring at it, all the other will follow (and yes, this did happen when they were herding the sheep). 

Oh, silly sheepies! You goofy mutton and your flocking instincts! 

Overall, great day at the rodeo. 

Here I am at the Rodeo with my Mommy!

Finally attention comes to the Khmer Rouge on a major program. I wish I could thank Christiane Amanpour personally for drawing attention to every genocide that isn't the Holocaust. While I can't fathom Hitler and the horrors that happened during that time- it makes me just as sick to see dozens of genocides completely ignored. 

Scream Bloody Murder, CNN

I called my mom the other day with 'The Question' hanging over my head. My boyfriend and I are going to Houston this week to visit my parents and it just so happens I never talk to my parents about... you know...that.

Which puts that big awkward elephant in the room- does he sleep with me or does he sleep on the couch? Considering I'm a big girl living in NYC along with the fact he and I spend 75% of our nights together; it would just be odd to sleep in separate beds. However, having the conversation with my parents was even more odd. 

So I let it sit, daunting me, on my to-do list for nearly a month before handling the matter. 

Finally I called my mom up days before my flight. 

Small talk for a few seconds. Chatting about work, life, books... whatever. 

Then I finally mustered up the courage and started, somewhat confidently:

Me: "So I, uh, was just..... you know... wondering.... ummm. Well, Daniel and I..... ummm." 

Mom:* chuckles*

Me:" We... most nights... we, uh, sleep in the same, um, bed and I... uhhh... I"

Mom: *Hysterical cackling*

Me: "When we're at your house do we have to... you know....?"

Mom: Through giggles she answered with complete nonchalance, "Nikki, I don't care what you do! I've been waiting for you to *hehe* ask me that for a month now!" 

Me: "Hmmm I uh....." *blushing profusely and continuing to fumble over words* 

Mom: "All I ask is that whatever you do be safe about it! That's all I ask any of my kids... be safe." 

Me: Holy crap my mother is telling me to use condoms in her house if I, ummm, do the dirty. Good Lord!

And then my phone promptly dropped the call, leaving me standing near W. 4th red as a tomato and eyes down. 

What an uncomfortable scenario. And no. I might be a prude, but I will not be doing that in my mother's home!

I have a HUGE art opportunity coming up and I'm going to ask all of you to pass on the info if you feel like it. This is a big one. 

I found a really cool grant that's being offered to artists right now. 10 artists were chosen to participate in the Art Eat Up and I was chosen as one of those 10. 

Basically the Art Eat Up is a fun way to grant funds to artists. Considering we spend hundreds to thousands of dollars on supplies and invest hours upon hours in our work but rarely make any money in return, grants are all the rage in the art community. 

We're starving and painting. Which is why so many artists loose their brains (or at least I think so). I mean, not all of us cut off our ears, but we're all a little strange.

Anyways, this grant is chosen by attendees. Basically you pay 20 bucks as a donation and they provide a nice dinner, baked goods and wine/beer to anyone who comes (included in the cost) and then all the money collected goes to the winning artist. Each attendee gets one vote and all the votes are tallied at the end. 

Which means that if you come you get a night of food and entertainment, plus you're supporting the arts. Not to mention, the more supporters who come for me, the more likely I am to get chosen as the artist. The funds would go to support my current series "Stories". You know the Cambodia painting? Yea, well I've decided bringing awareness to issues using my creative bone is far more useful than volunteering alone. So I'm off to volunteer in another country, assimilate as much as possible, and then add the experience to the series. All together I'd like to have 3 developing nations represented and really make people pay attention to things they may have never noticed using my art as the vehicle for awareness.

The money raised could help pay for my next trip and the supplies to create art after I return. You have no idea how much those supplies cost (I think I spent a hundred on my last piece alone with all that modeling paste, paint, etc.. not to mention nearly a month of work!).

This is one of those things I want with all my heart. Please tell your friends about it and help me make it a reality. 

Art Eat Up

Time & Place:

March 13th, 2010. 6-9pm

@ Villa Borinquen,

396 Manilla Avenue (corner of 2nd Street)

1st floor event space, Jersey City, NJ

Directions:

Villa Borinquen is located just 4 blocks north from the Grove Street PATH station in Jersey City. Exit the PATH and walk north 4 blocks on Grove Street (Grove becomes Manilla). Villa Borinquen is on the right side, # 396. The event space is on the first floor.

Ticket Info.:

Tickets are a suggested $20 donation, which includes a delicious dinner (menu coming soon!), a cup for wine and/or beer and one ballot to vote on an art project to receive funding.

If you're on Facebook or Twitter, I'll #FF you and/or mention your page on my blog. Please, please, share with EVERYONE you know!

It's absolutely beautiful outside. Warm, sunny, dry. It's like the first day of spring (although I know the snowy, slushy, all together icky season is hardly over) and New York has that fresh-out-of-winter smell. I'm sitting at the Starbucks I met Mandy at, working on some new projects and applying for a few art grants. It's perfection.

Strange to think how much has changed from that day between the Bahamas and my permanent move back when I sat here and talked about why I'd like to be hired as an intern. Still, the city feels the same. It looks the same... it's beautiful as always. 

Which made today a great day to get my passport renewed. The whole ordeal was a series of hoop jumping that only the United States government is capable of creating. 

First a little background: my wallet got stolen earlier this year. In it was all forms of identification I own except my passport. Basically, I cannot prove I'm Nicole Ryan Yeager if my life [literally] depended on it and considering my passport expired this week and I have a flight to Houston in 10 days... well, I was pretty much screwed. 

So I looked up the requirements for renewing a passport. In order to get an appointment you need to have proof of international travel within 10 days. Houston is not international. However, in order to get a replacement license I'd need to drive to Ohio, prove residence and show my Social Security card (1. I don't have a car 2. I don't live there 3. I have no SS card). 

After hours of weeding through passport info I gave up- If you don't have proof then haha! you must wait 6-8 weeks of painstakingly slow passport processing. Plus, you have to mail in the current passport so I'd have absolutely no ID for another month or so. Nothing at all. 

10 days to Houston and counting.

Which is when I decided to put on my criminal cap and use a little creativity. I booked a fake flight to the Bahamas that I can later refund. With my 'proof' in hand I lied to the clerks about my travel (apparently I'll be gone for two weeks starting the day after tomorrow and I'm coming back on a boat) and then sat in the passport office for a good 20 minutes. 

When it was my turn I walked up to the window and smiled at the man. Turns out that if you got a passport before 16 you need another form of identification to renew it. With a little flirtation, a bit of hair twirling and a big Ohio smile I got him to bend the rules a bit. After all, the picture was clearly me and I look the same as I did 6 years ago, right? Well, the 30 year old man behind the window agreed, I do look the same... so why not? 

And so my passport was. 

I love how NYC government offices work. Just like the JFK airport- you can get a knife, your shampoo and numchucks through if you have the right smile. It's all about the big Midwestern smile.

I got the best email of all time from my Sister in Law today. Now keep in mind I normally don't click on links or attachments unless absolutely necessary. 

However, something drew me to this particular picture. Was it the promise of kindergarten drawings? Maybe. Was it the hint at multiple food items riding in a vehicle? Most likely. 

I've always been  a sucker for cartoon food on wheels. 

So I opened it and found this masterpiece : 

Because when riding a five wheeled truck, it's imperative to carry not only a hot dog, but also an oversized sandwich... for those extra long trips (and extra BIG appetites), of course. 

Which explains the drivers big smile- the ginormous lunch items really make the trip worthwhile.

Wonder where he's going?

Oh how I love kids' imaginations!

Built on Tragedy:

It's not about a Monk sitting on skulls, but if that's what you see you're welcome to think of it that way. I'm the last person to decide what something "should" mean for another person. I just write these to describe what, exactly, it means to me.

This one means that until 1979 there was a genocide going on in Cambodia. A genocide that lead to the death of nearly 1/3 of the population. A genocide that killed innocent mothers, fathers and children. Everyone belonged to someone but Pol Pot decided that didn't matter... it shouldn't matter.

In fact, they came in with guns and uniforms and a promise of a better life. The Khmer Rouge regime took hold on the belief that the hill tribes of Cambodia had the right idea - non education and non-industrialized was the way to go. They believed so much in the idea of an unsophisticated life that they killed 1.4-2.2 MILLION human beings in pursuit of the "ideal" lifestyle.

In 1975 the killing started.

First it was the Vietnamese, then the Chinese, then any other minority group that was non-Khmer but living in Cambodian boundaries. Next came the educated class. The teachers, the lawyers, the doctors, the college graduates, the multi-lingual, the knowledgable. Education didn't fit into the plan, nor did intelligence. Families were murdered for educating their children, children were educated only on the Khmer Rouge policies.

The killing continued.

Next to go was the family structure. Communal life was a life worth living so parents were slaughtered and disrespected. Children were immediately torn from families, taught that parents held no place in society, everyone existing only for the common good. Love was tossed aside.

Children were taught to shoot their mothers in the back of the head for misbehaving. Dig the grave and move on.

The killing continued.

The highest estimate of deaths stopped near 2.5 million. The population was previously at 7 million. This was about 30 years ago. Think about it for one second. 30 years ago means that every adult man or woman in Cambodia experienced death and destruction. Nearly every person over 30 escaped the Killing Fields by some stroke of luck or another. I have friends who are old enough to have experienced the tragedy.

Yet Americans never learn about it.

Life continues. Work goes on. Khmer citizens go about their daily routines without education (the teachers were murdered), without modern conveniences (who would invent and manufacture those goods? The knowledgable were tortured and disposed of) and stuck in a third world slot for goodness knows how long.

But the culture is beautiful.

The sun rises every day and reveals a country more rich in history and enjoyment than any I've ever seen. The people joke and laugh in a lighthearted way unknown to Americans.

In the end, my life is more lovely for the people I knew in Cambodia.

Yet it all happens on top of the graves of thousands. It's all built on a past that haunts even the most jovial people..it was only 30 years ago but most of my U.S. friends would never know about it if I didn't paint this picture.

How it was Made:

I didn't plan on making it as large as it is (nearly my height and 40" across) but it happened that way because I kept combining more Chipboard. The skulls and tree are made with modeling paste and then painted with acrylics. The Monk is painted with acrylics and the general ground is covered with a sand-and-varnish paste I concoted with some craft sand and liquid matte varnish. I still need to devise a way to hang it but it's sturdy for now

Art Description Deux: Real Life is Trash can be found on my previous blog post.

Sorry to all my followers who are so very loyal! I know you've been checking in all the time (even when I'm not blogging I check my analytics!) and I'm sorry to not be posting.

I promise I didn't abandon you.

Quite the opposite- I've been working on this HUGE painting/Mixed Media piece to finally post online. It's about as tall as I am and it's taken me WEEKS. There's still plenty of touch ups and cleaning up I have to do on it, but I'm posting the nearly finished product here.

Story will come soon, let me know if you like it... the tree and skulls are modeling paste so there's a ton of texture (and weight) on it!

I went to listen to StaceyAnn Chin tonight at Barnes and Noble. There's something about the way she speaks that makes an audience gasp, cheer out, and then cry. We all sat there - gay, lesbian, bisexual, straight, transgender - transfixed by her speech. The way her hands moved, the way her lips danced along sentences with a light Jamaican accent and interjections of comedy. 

Sometimes I jab people's contacts out while others I just awkwardly run away as someone approaches me for a hug. 

In short, I suck at goodbyes. I mean, I can't even think about them without turning into a socially awkward fool! It's ridiculous. You'd think a New York extrovert would be able to give a cheek kiss with the best of them... but no. No, I can't.

So when I meet different members of my boyfriend's family I panic. Not just subtle anxiety, I'm talking full blown obsessive panic inside my head. I dread the moment I'm going to have to leave from the second I say hello. After all, from everything I can tell Russians are cheek-kissing, friendly-hugging, goodbye-stressing human beings. Whereas I haven't kissed my parents since I can remember (maybe 2 or 3 years old?).

Which means today when I had pee so badly my bladder almost burst and had to run into Daniel's sisters apartment .. well, the moment after urination was a mix of relief and nausea. 

First of all, I'd just burst in her door doing the 'potty dance' and before even saying 'how are you' I ran into the bathroom ignoring both Daniel's 9 year old nephew and even younger niece. 

In my defense I just drank two glasses of water and a cup of coffee. It was immediate rush to the bathroom or wet pants. I chose bathroom out of desperation. 

Then he walked to the back room while I made small talk with his sister. I'm great at small talk. I complimented her toilet seat (yes, yes I did.), asked her daughter how school was going and then rolled around with the family cat. By the time Daniel came out I was genuinely enjoying myself. 

But he went right for his shoes. 

I was already late for a meeting and it was time for goodbyes. 

Panic mode. 

He kissed her and gave a brotherly hug. 

I look at her and can tell she's going for the cheek kiss. 

Which cheek!?

She's coming closer. My heart beats faster. 

It may be a hug after all. 

Daniel looks at me and I take a step away from the sister. 

"HAVE A GOOD NIGHT!" 

And I ran out the door at 4pm.

Yes, I am Nikki Yeager and I'm awesome. 

I decided to post descriptions of each piece of art I've created on my blog. Why? Because I've been told it helps sell pieces and a thousand people ask me 'what does it mean?' on a daily basis. Unfortunately, I  burn out of the same description around time 149. Therefore, you'll find the descriptions on my blog and it will save my enthusiasm for when it's really important. Like at a show.

Real Life is Trash :

I did this piece in 2009 after coming back from the Bahamas. While in the Bahamas I worked for a non-profit, the Harvest Foundation. Like all of my trips, I was pretty unaware of the local culture before moving to the Caribbean, but then again, I think the only real way to understand a culture is by immersing oneself in it. Sort of a catch-22. You have to go unprepared to become prepared.

Anyways, I got there and things were a mess. The organization had been down for a few months prior to my arrival, the community center had been uprooted and moved, the community was unaware of any changes. Plus, the underlying issues were 10 times what I imagined.

First of all, the government in the Bahamas is atrocious at best. Like all small countries it takes a good 10 months to do what should take 10 hours (no exaggeration). All is fine and well with that philosophy until foreigners come in and think they can make a difference by working in a typically foreign way- which is exactly what happens to NGOs.Thankfully the woman who founded Harvest Foundation Bahamas had a pretty decent head on a her shoulders and while not everything was perfect her ideas were really well founded. She really wanted to develop the community and help them pull themselves up. It was a lovely notion.

While trying to get the organization to work out in her vision, I started noticing the world around me. Bribery, inefficiency, censorship, etc. It was a mess.

So one day I was sitting down and talking to a friend. My friend showed me a few pictures taken a while back. During the last huge hurricane (04 or 06 I can't remember), most of the island was wiped out. The airport was damaged, people were hungry, a full blown  catastrophe took over.

Like we always do, the big countries started throwing money on the issue like there was no tomorrow. We gave food and milk and water and clothing. We sent thousands to millions of dollars every day. We blindly opened out pocket books and assumed our life savings we poured into the country would make everything better- because after all, what else can happen with billions in donations?

Well, let me answer that for you. Billions of dollars given to a country with a well-oiled government can change the lives of millions. Billions given to the Bahamas during a natural disaster does very little. In fact, the freight ships full of clothing never reached the citizens. From what I've seen and what I was told, those freight ships came up with bundles of pants, shirts and underwear and then dropped the items at the dock. At the dock the items were picked up and driven to distribution warehouses and prepared for delivery. Trucks continued to bring more and more shipments to the distribution centers preparing for handouts, people talked about all the progress that was happening, bodies stopped being found on waterlogged beaches. 

Then nothing.

Go to the Bahamas and try to track the clothing down- you'll find it rotting in abandoned buildings and decayed warehouses. It's still there, it never helped anyone. Things started calming down and the donations were forgotten. Because real life doesn't work in the rest of the world like it does for us Americans. Real life doesn't always mean money=help.

Real life can become a whole bunch of t-shirts sitting in a warehouse. It can become trash.

Which boils it down to my piece- Real Life is Trash.

Note the stacks of molded clothing in the background and the frustrated man covering his face in the front. We can see it happening but there's often little we can do.

How it was made: 

Stretched Canvas with a garbage bag adhered to the top. Brown translucent paint to add color.

Then I glued a picture of the clothing to the garbage bag, transferred a photo of the man on top and outlined his details in white paint/black markers. The 'Real' is done in acrylic.

Signed at the bottom and ready to go.

Buy it now:

359.00, stretched canvas, ready to hang

Art Description Une : My teacher can be found on my previous blog post. 

I was feautured in the Viral Cat February 2010 issue and I'm totally pumped about it! But the thing that excites me most has nothing to do with my three happy-fun mixed media pieces, rather the other artists and writers who were featured. While I do art, my passion will always lie overwhelmingly in words. The way syntax makes a story move and the diction that tells a tale. I love watching verbs weave in and out of choppy prose and eloquent poetry. 

It gives me butterflies. Sort of like the poem "A Little Rotten" by Stephanie Bryant. It's beautiful and it's strong. It makes you think until the thoughts get so overwhelming they morph into a compilation of feelings. All wonderfully constructed and well worth the words that got you there. 

Which brings me to my friends. So many want to be writers, quite a few already are. Mandy Stadtmiller with her witty humor, Carolina Baker with her jounalism, and Johnny Cathcart with his novel. 

Yes, I know a self-published 3 time cancer-surviving writer. And he's a great guy all around. While he writes a hundred times differently than I ever have, he has a great story to tell. A story worth reading: spiritual. And anyone that needs a book to read should take a look at his. He's just that cool.

So there's my little post on words. I love them.