I came out here to write a short entry today.   I want my husband to take a picture of my hand wrapping so you can see what I have to deal with.  It’s pretty funny.

My teen son has been using my computer while I’m laid up.

So I look up at the ceiling…

…and see half a dozen spitballs stuck up there.

Author: Luann Udell

I find it just as important to write about my art as to make it. I am fascinated by stories. You can tell when people are speaking their truth--their eyes light up, their voices become strong, their entire body posture becomes powerful and upright. I love it when people get to this place in their work, their relationships, their art. As I work from this powerful place in MY heart, I share this process with others--so they have a strong place to stand, too. Because the world needs our beautiful art. All of it we can make, as fast as we can! Whether it's a bowl, a painting, a song, a garden, a story, if it makes our world a better place, we need to do everything in our power to get it out there.


  1. My son used to bounce a ball off the ceiling, and it was covered with little dirty circles from where the ball hit it. Drove my husband nuts. I’m impressed you are up and typing so soon! Don’t overdo it.


  2. Luann,

    Crack me up – thanks for the visual! I happen to have an embellished ceiling in my 12 year old’s room. Okay, she’s a girl so we’ve never done the spitball thing. You know those brightly colored ooey, gooey little creepy crawler things (think worms)? My daughter must have been bored one day, tore them apart and started throwing them up on her ceiling. To her delight, they stuck. We have a ceiling decorated in all kinds of ooey gooey colorful forms that slightly hang off. We call it the Lily installation!


  3. Glad to see your post, and yes I laughed. My dear child is only 7 1/2 but I see the rumblings of what lies ahead as she she older.
    Take care
    Regards Deborah


  4. ROFL. Three years ago two little girls came over to play with my daughter. Things were a little TOO quiet. You know, the kind of quiet that sets the “Mom-dar” off blazing at 1000 db. I went upstairs, walked down the hallway, opened my daughter’s door.

    There were the three girls, sitting on my daughter’s top bunk. There was my daughter’s baby doll, taped to the ceiling like a hostage, with push pins stuck in her and green marker all over her face to help emphasize the point. The ceiling fan was spinning on high not too far from the doll.

    Needless to say, two girls went home, and I disappeared to the bathroom to die laughing.


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