tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:/feed
Kat Caverly
2022-05-20T13:09:49-07:00
Kat Caverly
https://effectsontheside.com
kat@katcaverly.com
Svbtle.com
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/a-life-examined-episode-1
2022-05-20T13:09:49-07:00
2022-05-20T13:09:49-07:00
A Life Examined: Episode 1
<p><img src="http://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/Filecabinets.jpg" alt="photo file cabinets"></p>
<p>I got started on April 1st. Seemed appropriate to start such a big project on my Saint’s day; April Fools Day. I had been putting this off for years because with over 850 shoot folders, and more than 72,000 frames, it was overwhelming to start. But it was well past time. I have over 1000 pounds of negatives and slides from a previous life; a life of a commercial photographer.</p>
<p>It is all organized in folders stored in file cabinets, and catalogued by shoot date in a written ledger since 1978. My first two years as a professional, 1976 to the summer of 1978, was a mountain of miscellanous which took me the first month to organize and scan, backup, and archive. It took me that long to work out the production pipeline.</p>
<p><strong>Today is May 20, 2022. I just finished shoot No. 220.</strong> </p>
<p><img src="http://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/Folders.jpg" alt="photo folders"></p>
<p>I backup the scanned files daily so that they are copied on to 4 drives on two workstations. On Saturdays I copy the week’s work to two more drives on a third workstation, as well as upload them to my Cloud drive and LTO tape. Full disclosure: I have never had any of my drives fail me in over 28 years of computing, but this is a life’s work and I am not taking any shortcuts.</p>
<p>Some of this film is over 46 years old and I am seeing damage even though all has been stored to the professional standards of the time they were shot. Even some of the black and white negatives have damage from age. I am sure that the color films have shifted in color, but that has produced some interesting new results.</p>
<p>I use a bed scanner, UMAX Powerlook 1100 for large format negatives and transparencies, as well as contact sheets and prints. I use a Nikon COOLSCAN V for 35 mm film, color and black & white. I use the software <a href="https://www.hamrick.com">VueScan</a>.</p>
<p>Eventually I will create a website, but for the next 8-10 months I am going to concentrate on the process of archiving all of my work and the stories that are renewed in my memories.</p>
<p>I don’t know who needs to know all of this so I will be writing it down mostly for me. Photography is a perfect mnemonic. I am remembering things long ago forgotten. Good thing I took notes.</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/it-was-the-night-before-christmas
2016-12-09T13:13:16-08:00
2016-12-09T13:13:16-08:00
It was the Night before Christmas
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-night-before.jpg" alt="Ornaments in the Snow by Kat Caverly"></p>
<p>We had already been to two other tree lots. It was after 10 pm on Christmas Eve and it was closing time. My friend’s mood went from bad to worse. At best Jim’s Christmas spirit this year could be described as “conscientious objector”. His wife, Lynn, is a genuine Earth Mother and full of holiday cheer-you-up. But none of it was rubbing off on Jim.</p>
<p>At first Lynn and I were so sure that it was going to be as easy as Christmas cookies to find a great tree for under $15. That’s all Jim would allow Lynn to spend on a Christmas tree. That was two hours ago. This is our last chance. The eleventh hour was near and the pickings are slim.</p>
<p>We left Jim brooding in the car, and we went skipping into the lot yelling out to anyone that could hear us, “Oh please don’t close, not yet. It’s Christmas Eve!” A young man who has already started turning off the lights in the back appeared. He said that he is tired and they are closing up. We promised to be quick. There are only a few trees left, most of them also pretty tired.</p>
<p>And there it is. The most beautiful Christmas tree we had seen all night. We asked how much, only to be told that this tree was fifty bucks. “Fifty bucks!” We both looked back at Jim in the car. Even with the windows closed you could still hear him ranting. In harmony we implored the young man, “Do you have anything for $15?”</p>
<p>After a few frantic minutes we did find another good tree, but this one was $35. We were told that we might be able to talk the owner into giving us a break. After all this would be the last sale of the season. He pointed to a small white trailer at the end of the lot. “Pay there.”</p>
<p>An old man sat in the dark at the lone window of the trailer. When we got close enough he slid it open and sat silently at first looking us up and down. Before he could utter a word, Lynn and I go into a duet about how much we love Christmas and how a tree is going to make our season bright and how we found an amazing tree on his lot, and on and on about Christmas Eve, how we couldn’t afford it and that we only had $15 to spend and finally we were out of breath. </p>
<p>Then the man at the window told us his Christmas story.</p>
<p>A story about his beloved wife. He said she loved Christmas as much as we did. She had died of cancer. It ‘s his first Christmas without her. They would have been married 50 years. He told us to go get the tree that we really wanted. We reminded him we could only spend $15. He just repeated, “Go get it!”</p>
<p>Well, he didn’t have to tell us again. We ran to the car. Jim had the money. We were both so excited we were talking at light-speed. Jim grunted something about a capitalist plot and handed over the crumpled bills.</p>
<p>The young man took the tree to Jim’s car and we ran back up to the trailer. I handed the money to the old man, but all he did was shake his hand “NO” All he would say was “Merry Christmas”.</p>
<p>Even Jim had to smile. It was a Christmas miracle.</p>
<p><strong>©Kat Caverly 2015</strong></p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/suits
2015-02-18T10:53:20-08:00
2015-02-18T10:53:20-08:00
SUITS
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/katcaverly-sparky-1981.jpg" alt="Sparky, studio 1981, new york"></p>
<p>It all started with a Manuel Piña suit. My friend Pamela introduced me to this Spanish fashion designer. She took me to his showroom in New York City in 1981. I fell in love with the color of the gray wool jacket. It was 18% gray, or middle gray as we photographers like to call it. It is used for taking light meter readings, calculating exposure.</p>
<p>This suit demanded exquisite accessories. I chose a brushed steel grey silk blouse to go with it. The suit jacket is almost military, very straight lines, mid-thigh length. The jacket had an outer panel of gray, which revealed the back of the jacket is a crème color wool to match the skirt. The skirt continues the long lines, tapering to below the knees. I was measured for a custom fit. I chose a gray metallic pump with a variation on the theme wing-tips. This is my power suit. I am a fashion and beauty photographer still in 1981, and I mean business.</p>
<p>I had only been in New York for six months, when a spread of my photographs found their way into a porno magazine, without my permission. Yes, they were nudes. Or they turned out to be nudes. Sparky, the model, was a stripper, so I gave up trying to keep her clothes on during the shoot. </p>
<p>My first Manhattan studio had 90 feet of windows facing 24th street in the photography district. As I turned to load another roll of film I saw that we were putting on a show for the building across the street. All those windows on their fourth floor were filled with men cheering us on. They waved. Sparky couldn’t resist an audience. She waved back. Not with her hands.</p>
<p>Sparky loved the photographs, but she didn’t understand copyright law. The copies I made for her portfolio made their way to this sleazy men’s magazine. The spread even gave me photo credit, but this only made matters worse. I did not want to be associated with this rag. Sparky proudly gave me a copy of the magazine, which was how I found out about the infringement. This was all the proof I needed to avail myself of the protections provided by the Great Copyright Act of 1976. Using my work without permission is called infringement. Permission had to be in writing. I knew enough to stamp the slide mounts with “Kat Caverly ©”.</p>
<p>I called the publisher, “You used my photographs without my permission.” He wanted to meet with me as soon as possible. I agreed to come to his office. I had just the suit for this occasion. I wore it the first time for the meeting with this smut magazine publisher. Now it was my law suit.</p>
<p>I had my hair styled. Makeup done. I even wore earrings, which was rare. I never wear jewelry. The whole outfit worked together to say I knew a little something about fashion. I was Twiggy-thin and looked fabulous. But when I hit the street and tried to hail a cab on Seventh Avenue I realized that the design of the skirt made it impossible for me to walk in a normal stride. Now I know how geishas feel. I could not run.</p>
<p>I made it across the street to the cab, finally. There was no turning back to change and make it to my appointment with the porn king on time. So I tried to just walk daintily.</p>
<p>Mister Men’s Magazine met me in reception. Shaking his hand was all the proof I needed that he was slimy. He wasted no time in offering me $2500 for his indiscretion. He couldn’t undo the damage. He couldn’t take back all of the copies. It was a done deal, a one-time run. $2500 was a lot of money to this starving artist, and more money than I had ever made on the publishing of my photographs so far. I still didn’t know the law. I certainly did not know any lawyers.</p>
<p>I was done. He paid me immediately and joked that this was his business model; use photographs without permission only paying if caught. This would be a reoccurring theme in my career. What was I suppose to say, thank you? I couldn’t get out of his office fast enough.</p>
<p>Now I had to deal with walking on the street in this skirt again. When the cab dropped me off, I pulled the skirt up above my knees so I could now run across the street. After I got back to the studio, I took off the suit and immediately brought the skirt to my local tailor on 23rd Street to have slits cut into it.</p>
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/katcaverly-suit-1981.jpg" alt="Suit, location, new york 1981"><br>
all photography © Kat Caverly</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/a-swimmers-song
2014-06-30T08:12:15-07:00
2014-06-30T08:12:15-07:00
A Swimmer's Song
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-swimming-pool1986.jpg" alt="Backyard swimming pool, South Orange, NJ 1986, photo by Kat Caverly"><br>
<strong>Swimming Pool Blues, © photo by Kat Caverly, 1986</strong></p>
<p><strong>Down Down Down</strong></p>
<p><strong>Deeper Deeper</strong></p>
<p><strong>Turning, I do the backstroke, underwater</strong></p>
<p><strong>Above me, the summer funsters</strong></p>
<p><strong>Floating Flying Flailing Angels</strong></p>
<p><strong>I can’t stay down for much longer</strong></p>
<p><strong>Straining my stamina</strong></p>
<p><strong>The air beckons me back</strong></p>
<p><strong>Back to the surface</strong></p>
<p><strong>In the down deep of my water world</strong></p>
<p><strong>In the quiet I hear the songs of laughter above</strong></p>
<p><strong>On this hot summer’s afternoon</strong></p>
<p><strong>I give in and rise back up effortlessly to join them</strong></p>
<p><strong>Tomorrow I will wait for daddy again</strong></p>
<p><strong>Beg for another quarter</strong></p>
<p><strong>The price of admission to this world of floating angels</strong></p>
<p><strong>So I can return</strong></p>
<p><strong>To seeking the bottom of the pool</strong></p>
<p>~poem by Kat Caverly, June 2014, all rights reserved</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/enough
2014-06-28T12:00:43-07:00
2014-06-28T12:00:43-07:00
Enough
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-xmas1959.jpg" alt="daddy's photograph of Kat Caverly 1959"><br>
<strong>I take aim at my mother, Shirley, in 1959</strong></p>
<p>As I entered into my teens I weighed less than 80 pounds “soaking wet” as my father liked to say. I could count on him teasing me about being skinny. I couldn’t count on him to protect me from my mother, Shirley. I had to wait to get big enough to stand up to her on my own.</p>
<p>Shirley was 5 foot two inches and 105 pounds. I lived in terror in her shadow. Like a hurricane she was unpredictable and dangerous. Years later, even as she was restrained in straps, tied to a bed, I still felt unsafe around her. I had only found out she was mentally ill after my little brother was born. All hopes of safety around Shirley were lost knowing she couldn’t control herself.</p>
<p>That makes what happened on a particular morning in 1969 all the more remarkable. I am 14 years old. My baby brother, Eddie, is three years old and Shirley is still a stranger to him since she has spent most of his short three years in a psychiatric hospital. We are eating breakfast – a meal I hated as a kid – and Eddie seems to share my distaste for it. </p>
<p>As Eddie fusses and complains, feeding him becomes increasingly frustrating for Shirley. She is getting more and more agitated, and then suddenly, she slaps him across his tiny face so hard it leaves a bright red handprint on his cheek, and knocks the air out of him. His expression is a frozen scream. No sound comes out of his mouth. </p>
<p>Without thinking I step into the line of fire between my brother and my mother, as she gets ready to hit him again. Where did I find the courage to stand up to this woman who only wreaks havoc in my heart? Standing up to kids who are bullies is something I always feel I must do, even when they are bigger than me. I have to stand up to this bully too. </p>
<p>I physically create the gauntlet to protect my brother, who is still gasping for air. Shirley turns all her violent anger at me. <br>
“I’m going to kill you!” she screams inches from my face. <br>
I am used to Shirley telling me she is going to kill me. She has tried before to follow up on this threat. </p>
<p>Her violent temper looms large in my mind and now it looms larger over me. Little. Skinny. Me. I usually flinch even when she benignly gestures towards me. But this time I shout back, “Not only are you NOT going to kill me. YOU are never going to touch me or Eddie ever again!”</p>
<p>I shocked Shirley. She backed away from me and I moved aggressively, and threateningly, towards her. I was serious. She was now frightened of me. As I look back on this miraculous event, I realize it was the tipping point; a major event made of equal parts fear and courage.</p>
<p>Shirley left the kitchen. I turned my attention back to Eddie. He stopped crying. He still wouldn’t eat breakfast. For all those years, I wondered about what I had to do to end the torment, to stop the torture? All I had to do was stand up for someone else to give myself the courage to say, “Enough!”</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/september-twelfth
2014-05-26T12:52:33-07:00
2014-05-26T12:52:33-07:00
September Twelfth
<p>“What to do?” I ask myself. I am in survival mode. I call my friend, special agent Glenn Mann, my secret agent Mann. Glenn Mann has been part of the FBI anti-terrorism team since 1993. He’ll know what to do. It’s September 12th, 2001.</p>
<p>Last night, after a day filled with terror, I found myself frozen in fear, unable to walk through the dark to just go to the bathroom. I sit in the dark planning to get away, far away. It’s not safe here. I know this feeling all too well. I’ve already asked Tom if we should get out of Manhattan.</p>
<p>September 11th started out like any other day, until my father called at just before 9am. He knows I live in Manhattan. He wants to make sure I am ok. He informs me a plane has flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center. My father always calls when there is a disaster. I turn on the TV.</p>
<p>I call my assistant Sai Ming. He’s just arrived in the studio. I tell him about what we all still think is an accident. I tell him to call his mom in Hong Kong. “Let her know you are all right,” I say, still thinking we are all right. Then I call Tom.</p>
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/September-11-2001.jpg" alt="View of the North Tower, World Trade Center, morning September 11, 2001. photo by Thomas Hudson Reeve"></p>
<p>He is working at the Chelsea Piers, on the Hudson River, and standing on a rooftop with a clear view of the World Trade Center just 2.7 miles downriver. The whole world is tuned-in by now. I tell Sai Ming to come up to my apartment, to watch the news. It is then we hear that another plane has hit the south tower. It’s 9:03am. We are not all right. We can’t work today.</p>
<p>What’s going on? Is this an accident? We watch, stunned, as we’re told that the Pentagon has been hit by a third plane. Then it hits me. We are being attacked. I am on the phone with Tom as he watches the south tower collapse. What? This can’t be happening.</p>
<p>At 10:10am a fourth plane goes down in Pennsylvania. President Bush addresses an anxious America. His words still ring terror in my heart. What he said was, “The search is underway for those who are behind these evil acts.” What I heard was, “we will hunt them down.” </p>
<p>The north tower crumbles at 10:28am. It’s been less than two hours since the first plane hit the World Trade Center. Time stops. I keep trying to catch my breath.</p>
<p>New York City is a war zone. The war against terror begins and that frightens me more than the attack. Sai Ming and I watch as the media replays the footage, over and over again. I close my eyes and I see it play again and again in my mind.</p>
<p>Tom helps FEMA set up an emergency field hospital at the Pier to treat the wounded. But they never come. He comes home at 7pm, exhausted. I am a wreck. My world has literally been blown apart. How can I ever feel safe again?</p>
<p>Here I am sitting in the dark, filled with a terror I haven’t felt since childhood. You see, I had suffered abuses as a child that I spent years overcoming. Suddenly the fear came rushing back, triggering full-blown post-traumatic stress. This terror reveals I am not really safe. </p>
<p>I remember that denial worked back then so I conjure it up to have the courage to go to the bathroom. I am able to sleep again. I’ve always been able to sleep surrounded by the terror of knowing I am not safe.</p>
<p>In the morning I tell Tom we have to move away from Manhattan. We are in the middle of a prime target. He does his best to calm me down, suggesting that I call Glenn Mann. I think, “Yes Glenn will know what to do.”</p>
<p>Tom was right. Secret Agent Mann gave me this advice, “You’re safer here today than you were yesterday.” So with this trusted assurance, I disappear into the safety of denial. “I am safe,” I tell myself, “I will survive this too.”</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/a-throat-full-of-hope
2014-04-21T07:09:35-07:00
2014-04-21T07:09:35-07:00
A Throat Full of Hope
<p>Few things bring me the thrill of anticipation like a chocolate Easter bunny. What to eat first? It boggles my four year old mind.</p>
<p>This is only my second chocolate bunny ever, but I’ve already decided the head must be eaten last! It is the crowning glory. I covet this second chocolate Easter bunny as a prized possession. It is mine and mine alone. Maybe I’ll nibble on his tiny toes first.</p>
<p>Mommy catches me worshipping this chocolate idol. I still don’t have the words to express how I feel at this moment, but I instinctively know this is my moment and no one else’s. Mommy asks, “Can I have a bite?” This question alone should have had me questioning her sanity, but I am only four years old and everyone around me seems crazy.</p>
<p>As a good Catholic girl I am required by my God to share all goodness, or so I was told. This wasn’t the first time mommy had asked for a bite of my chocolate Easter bunny. Last year, not knowing better, I willingly handed over my first and she took a big bite out of its head! She thought this was really funny.</p>
<p>That horror still reverberating inside my still almost empty toddler mind, I declare, “No, you’ll eat the head!”</p>
<p>Mommy promised not to, not this time. Mommy begged. She begged and then she promised again that she would not eat the head. So I had to give her another chance, right? I can rest assured no adult could break a promise, right? There must be some kind of Catholic law. It was Easter Sunday after all.</p>
<p>As I passed the cherished chocolate, I caught the look in my mother’s eyes, a look revealing her true intentions, but it was already too late. She had her hands around my beloved bunny’s neck and in one bite the head was gone.</p>
<p>As the headless body was given back to me, I looked in horror as I now saw its hollowness. Convinced my mother had sucked out the very chocolate-y soul of this Easter icon, I let out a blood-curdling scream. This brought my father and my grandfather and my grandmother running into the living room. </p>
<p>As I left the adults to laugh at the absurdity of my predicament, laughing at my expense, I sulked off, unable to eat the chocolate carcass. I gave it to my father, then, turning my attention to the jelly beans, I wondered just what kind of flowers can these magical morsels grow?</p>
<p>Life can still be sweet.</p>
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tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/thank-you-grandma
2014-04-08T07:52:49-07:00
2014-04-08T07:52:49-07:00
Thank you Grandma. I love you.
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-grandma-and-me2.jpg" alt="Me and Grandma"><br>
<a href="https://effectsontheside.com/starting-out-life-living-with-breast-cancer"><strong>Grandma and Me, 1958</strong> </a></p>
<p>I am eleven years old when Grandma dies of breast cancer. Life seems to fall into the deepest cold, and it seems that I will never be really loved again.</p>
<p>Grandma is more of a mother to me than my own mother, Shirley, who tried to kill me the first time when I was still in a crib. That lands Shirley, for the first time, in what was then known as an “insane asylum”. </p>
<p>When they tell me my mother is mentally ill, just after Grandma dies, all the things Shirley did to me don’t seem real anymore. Everything I’ve been feeling - the anger, the hatred, the violence – are all just dirty secrets now.</p>
<p>Grandma would have told me what it all meant. But now she’s gone. Grandma always told me the truth. She’s the one who told me she had breast cancer. All the other adults were too afraid to tell me. </p>
<p>I am five years old when she tells me. Everyone talks in hushed tones around me. I’m a pretty smart kid, but I can’t figure out what’s going on. Why are conversations suddenly ending when I come into the room? What’s the big secret?</p>
<p>It’s Grandma who sits me down and explains it. She has cancer. “That makes everyone scared,” she says. “I have to be strong for them.” <br>
I say to myself, “If I ever have a serious illness, I won’t be taking care of anyone else. People will have to take care of me.” That is, until decades later, when I’m the one diagnosed with breast cancer.</p>
<p>As we wait for the results of the biopsy I can see in Tom’s eyes how saddened he already is by the possibility I have cancer. It’s then I understand what Grandma had meant. I have to be strong for Tom to be strong enough for cancer.</p>
<p>The phone rings. It’s Doctor Zoe. I am calm when she tells me that I have breast cancer. My overwhelming thought is how hard it must be for her to deliver such news. </p>
<p>Grasping what has just happened. I remember when Grandma told me that she had breast cancer. I experience the same simple acceptance I had as a child. The same kind of calm comes over me. I am immediately ready to continue living every moment of my precious life!</p>
<p>I am not afraid to die. What makes me cry is thinking about how sad Tom would be if I died. But cancer or no, I will die some day. Tom will die some day, too. </p>
<p>I go through chemo and surgery. Then I start radiotherapy. The word “radiate” means such good things but the word “radiation” can ignite such terror, so I call it by its more upbeat name. Radiotherapy. I’m happy when I’m told I can have my own soundtrack.</p>
<p>The radiation table is my newest stage. I open with Jack Johnson’s “Radiate.” Tom says this song makes him think of me. I think of him when it plays and I am filled with love. The lyrics inspire me, as I walk to my treatments. I do “believe every part of the dream.” </p>
<p>I greet the staff with jokes. I need to hear laughter. The nurses are taking such good care of me. “I’m gonna watch you radiate,” the lyrics say, and that’s what they’re doing, watching me radiate. They take it seriously so I don’t have to, at least not outwardly. Inwardly I have been a hot mess of emotions. Calming down has never been my strength.</p>
<p>Jack Johnson sings as a team of technicians work to get me into position. Then the lights come on. It’s Show Time! The machine hums and clicks, and then buzzes. I imagine ray guns taking aim at the enemy: pa-choo pa-choo! </p>
<p>I can’t let anyone know I’m anxious, least of all Tom. He’s only home with me on the weekends. During the week he’s another world away, in New York City working on some Big TV Show. I know I declared many years ago that if I ever had cancer, people would have to take care of me, but how is Tom going to take care of me now that I have breast cancer?</p>
<p>That first weekend after I’m given the news and we were getting him ready for his trek back to the City, I catch Tom sitting on the couch, sadder than I’ve ever seen him. </p>
<p>I muster up all the joy I can endure. When Tom catches me singing and dancing, I see him smile for the first time since we got the news. He tells his colleagues at work about this. He says he feels so lucky to have a wife who is practically ebullient as she faces cancer instead of all curled up in a corner, withdrawn in fear.</p>
<p>Now I get it. Now I know what grandma was doing when she was taking care of all the adults who didn’t have cancer. </p>
<p>I will be brave, for Tom. </p>
<p>I will smile and laugh, for Tom. </p>
<p>I will sing and dance, for Tom, </p>
<p>all the while knowing I truly am the beneficiary.</p>
<p>I can call it radiation now, no longer being afraid of the unknown. It’s no longer an unknown. It’s history!</p>
<p>“You did great,” says my radiation oncologist. He says I will be normal again soon. I laugh and tell him, “I’ve never been normal before. If I start being normal then you should start to worry.”</p>
<p>There’s lots of laughter when I talk to my nurses and doctors. They smile and say they are going to miss me, but I secretly hope to never see any of them ever again. </p>
<p>The odds I was given that I might recover from my childhood traumas were close to zero, but I did recover, after 40 years and a lot of effort. So give me 40 more years and I will get over this cancer too. </p>
<p>In the mean time, I am getting stronger every day. I made it. I made it through the chemo. I made it through the surgery. I made it through the radiation. For the first time since I am told I have cancer I know for certain what’s going to happen next: I’m going to live my life, one day at a time with joy and hope. </p>
<p>The real worry isn’t dying; it’s not living life. And as long as I am alive and living, I am not dying. Life starts at birth and ends at death. In between I am living life to the fullest.</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/reaching-for-the-stars
2014-03-31T13:02:16-07:00
2014-03-31T13:02:16-07:00
Reaching for the Stars
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-reaching-for-stars.jpg" alt="self-portrait of Kat Caverly, March 24, 2014"><br>
<strong>Kat Caverly, Self-Portrait March 24, 2014</strong></p>
<p>I have had my head in the clouds for a very long time. When I sent my first letter to Leo Burnett himself in 1971 he responded with his famous motto: “When you reach for the stars you may not quite get one, but you won’t come up with a handful of mud either.” Because of his recommendations I took classes at the American Academy of Art in 1972, the same year I came to the conclusion I needed a degree in psychology to succeed in advertising.</p>
<p>In 1966 I was reaching out to Dr. Norman Nachtrieb, the head of chemistry at the University of Chicago. Science had my brain. Art had my heart. Photography was the perfect marriage of art and science. By 1976, I fell in love with my life’s work when I started my advertising photography apprenticeship.</p>
<p>Photographer led to greeting card creator, led to comic performer, led to graphic designer. I worked in other artists like some work in oils when I created NoEvil Productions in 2004. At peak I had 28 creatives working for me; illustrators, writers, directors, voiceover actors, animators, composers, musicians. And now in 2014, I embark on my most ambitious transformation yet: I am creating an animated photocartoon series for toddlers. It is totally true that all those roads traveled led me to what’s next.</p>
<p>I was asked a few years ago why I wasn’t planning to retire at my age. Besides never planning to retire ever, I thought the question revealed a lack of understanding me. Most people hate to work. I started working full-time when I was 14 years old. I was creating projects even years before that. There is a point when my projects seem like I will do them forever. But they all come to an end and metamorphose into things I could never have predicted.</p>
<p>Art is a flow, and as an artist I had to learn to swim, sometimes against the current. I am still reaching for the stars here after more than 40 years. With any luck, I will continue for another 40 years.</p>
<p>Wish me luck!</p>
tag:effectsontheside.com,2014:Post/wonder-woman
2014-03-10T13:23:17-07:00
2014-03-10T13:23:17-07:00
I am Wonder Woman
<p><img src="https://www.katcaverly.com/copyright/kat-caverly-wonder-woman.jpg" alt="Kat Caverly, Self-Portrait: March 10, 2014"></p>
<p>Well, I am A wonder woman. I wonder about everything. Like the song goes, “I wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder…” and I wonder why I wonder. I am done with chemo, the surgery, radiation. With each I wondered about the unknowns. “I wonder if I’ll be strong enough? I wonder if I can take this emotionally?” I wondered if the side effects would prevent me from finishing the chemo, the radiation, and now I wonder about another unknown: the endocrine therapy that hopes to starve any remaining itinerant cancer cells. </p>
<p>I didn’t even know I had any estrogen left after menopause. I found out this fact the hard way, after I found out it was feeding my breast cancer. Like the other treatments it is a matter of the benefit far outweighing the risks, but still it is a profound wake-up call, especially when it comes to the brain and estrogen.</p>
<p>I can deal with the joint and muscle pain (exercise) and the risk of osteoporosis (exercise and calcium). I know I can reduce my risk of dying from this breast cancer by 50% by maintaining vitamin D level of over 30 ng/ml (mine was 63 going into chemo). I am not sure yet how to deal with the effect on my brain except to continue being creative, challenging myself intellectually daily.</p>
<p>During this therapy (a daily pill) my risk of recurrance is reduced to around 3%, a 97% chance of being cancer-free for the next five years. I love those odds! And who knows what new treatment will be approved by then?! In the meanwhile I have been given my marching orders, “Go live your life!” Yes sir, that is the plan.</p>