We attempt to measure existence
surveying primal rhythms
moon and sun, daylight, nightfall
counting never-ending stars
that metamorphose into animals, gods and monsters
forming a virtual season map
holding It like a living thing
placing mechanical gauges upon our thin wrists and bland office walls
only to watch with sharp eyes each small passing second.

High heels clank against the cool marble floor
her heart beating, her breathe steady
an arm sways as if it has thoughts of its own
silver bracelets jingle against a silky, pastel skirt
mirroring soft flowing water
her spicy perfume blurs through the air.

A suited man drops his hard briefcase
it breaks open and papers scatter erratic in the wind
a raw guttural curse snaps from his mouth
his red tie flies up into his distorted face
and his shiny brown shoes stumble.

Moments collected like an immeasurable stack of delicate paper
layered one upon another as they fall
surreal into Einstein bliss
a future & past continuum
oblivious to our deep-rooted desire
to quantify life.

I become impatient when I am working on a new series of paintings. I have the urge to place one or two of them on display at the gallery (or somewhere else), as I am less excited to keep hanging work I did a year ago. Part of it is that the work I did a year ago is not a good representation of who I am or what I am doing now, as an artist. It would be roughly like writing a letter about current affairs to a friend and then waiting a year to send it… old news.

Also, a new series of work really needs to be seen altogether in one space, to have the proper impact and/or affect. It needs to be fresh and totally new – not yet seen elsewhere in pieces or parts, losing momentum in the process. It is an entire message that would look like it was missing something if only a few pieces were shown… a story missing the plot, sort of speak.

I am sure other visual artists have this issue, but when you are showing on a regular basis in a gallery or some other art space, it does seem to heighten the dilemma, at least for me. I am not one of those artists who can veer off into another direction just to have something new to show. It really takes my whole being – my entire will at that moment, to produce a new piece each and every time. And when I am onto a certain idea or theme, I am really “on” with pure devotion… no going astray, as there really would be no point… it would likely fall flat, showing a thorough lack of passion.

I felt like I needed to explain this, and almost apologize for not showing something new…. yet. But, it is a natural process that takes time and effort to create what I feel is worthy of exhibiting. More and more it becomes a very real extension of who I am and what I wish to say, and clearly the impetus is about my deepest feelings regarding the gravity of serving others.

Many artists realize at some point in their art career, why they even have such a gift. I mean, yeah, it is fun to play and experiment with multiple medias and ideas, but it really comes down to something much more revealing, something that is committed to the artist’s personal reason for being alive. This is the ideal concept for all of us, as we are all here to create from this center of who we are. Call it the “God” within us, or our source of “collective consciousness”, but I believe it is there eternally, waiting for us to open the door.

My focus to create went from nearly zero to sixty and then to the sky is the limit, when I became aware of my personal “mission” in life. Nothing can compare to this feeling of self discovery and revelation that goes way beyond just being about oneself, but more about what we can do to help others in this process of self-awareness and growth. I think this is usually a happy accident.

The desire to communicate something deep-seated, and hopefully eye-opening, is all well and good, but one does hope it somehow reaches those in most need of the message or healing intended. Creating something with this kind of purpose or energy is most rewarding, and what could be more well rounded, harmonious, synchronistic and actually… well… perfect?

I love being an artist.

Translucent blue-green water
washes over
my feet
white sand pulls
from under
my vision fixed
upon sunlit crystal symmetry
dancing through
rhythmic waves.

The news gnaws
a hole
into my being.
I see the death
of an ocean
dolphins, whales, sea turtles, fish
birds
rotting
in a toxic stew
our Mother’s womb
infertile

Sometimes, it is the repetition of things that can lead us there... the mind begins to wonder because you have been somewhere, or done something so many times before. I am specifically referring to exercise, but this could apply to many other things we do in life.

Who hasn’t felt some sense of boredom doing multiple crunches on the floor, or running down the same road day after day? It is this kind of dilemma that often discourages many of us from doing some sort of exercise in the first place. And I probably do not even need to mention the menial tasks you may fulfill throughout your workday … this could be an infinite list. The very nature of some jobs is strictly repetitive, sometimes requiring intense concentration. But, there are those that only require that we make a certain movement, while our thoughts can be elsewhere... known affectionately as the rather harmless, yet most enhancing booster to the creative process... that we call “Day Dreaming”.

I remember back in the days when I ran, (it was called jogging). There was a track near my home that was part of a local high school. I thought it was a great way to do my morning exercise... just a short walk to this track and then I could run around the thing for however long I determined it would benefit my body. I plugged music into my ears, hoping this would increase my attraction to this form of exercise, but oh, did I ever learn the boredom of repetition!

Coming back to the present times, this summer I have been biking in the mornings. I usually go to the Braes Bayou Hike & Bike Path, as it is fairly close to my home, although I actually drive to the location and pull my folding bike out to get onto the path. I am a weenie about getting onto the main roads... there are so many reasons why. Mainly, it is about people in cars not seeing people on bikes - in the road. If I have to go somewhere without my car, it is sidewalks for me.

As I ponder where I wish to go for a fresh environment, the idea of driving too far usually sways my decision. I found myself dreading the same, daily bike path, thinking that I so needed a different setting to really enjoy the experience. But, I gave in to the convenience of closeness, and something very intriguing began to happen.

The first incredible certainty is that there has always been plenty to take in while riding on this same path. Birds usually steal the show, especially the water foul... Great Blue Herons, Snowy & Cattle Egrets, diving Cormorants and the shrill-whistling Killdeer, to name a few. Most of them are obviously attracted to the fish that swim just below the surface of the surprisingly clear, greenish water.

The Egrets & Herons stand frozen with their long, stick-like legs, sometimes walking slowly until just the right moment to catch their meal. It is not a bird sanctuary, but it is definitely a good stopping off point. The bayou is mostly a man-made structure that follows its ancient, natural predecessors – those tributaries that cater to all marsh life as the water makes its way to the ocean.

One day last Spring, the air was filled with the fast buzzing movements of what seemed like a million dragonflies… it was almost Biblical in nature. Golden sunlight laced their transparent wings, gracing the bayou and all who were present. It amazed me that not one of them ran into my swift approaching bicycle... such seasoned flyers!

There are always some beautiful species of butterflies, with one tiny, pale-yellow version that seems to love flying alongside of a speeding bike… racing in the wind to keep up. Something about the fast movement attracts attention, I guess.

People are also fun to watch. Sometimes they smile back, or even say hello, but many do not seem to want to look up… their bodies sweating and their zombie eyes facing downward, staring at the path as if they have been hypnotized. I hope that as soon as they return home, someone will snap their fingers to wake them up.

The ones that puzzle me most are those who look right into your eyes, but do not respond to a quick “hello”. Maybe they are too surprised, or just not interested in any contact. Some have a sour, almost painful look on their hot faces, but most give a warm smile in return.

I love the mornings after a rainstorm. The air is usually a bit cooler, even though it is still quite humid. It may also be slightly cleaner… definitely a sweeter smell prevails. We have had quite a few storms this month, and the bayou swells up with fast moving currants. Greenery is everywhere, and many beautiful wildflowers emerge - that is, if the city does not decide to mow down all the wild growth first.

Truth is, this area is new every time I go there… every moment of every day. Nothing really stays the same. But even with this being the case, it wasn’t until I changed the way I thought about this daily routine, that it began to look and feel so different... literally calling me back for more.

Aside from all the wondrous events that nature can produce on a continuous basis, another element of surprise came to me. It first happened a few years ago, when I used to walk every day in my neighborhood. The thing that really attracted me was the time to ponder and sense my true feelings about any issue that came into my head, which I believe was often inspired by this interaction with the nature of life around me.

This self-journalizing started after reading that most beneficial book, “The Artist’s Way”, by Julia Cameron. As the process grew, I eventually began to carry a recorder to speak my thoughts as they came into my head. I was so addicted to this that the walking an hour every morning seemed like a menial task. It was very good exercise, but that is not why I did it. It had to be intriguing for me mentally, or perhaps spiritually in order to do it so religiously. The exercise became a great, bonus side effect.

By the way, I never went back to listen to any of those tapes. My partner frightened me one day, saying that when I become famous (he likes to talk this way about my future art career), students would have to listen to these crazy rants of mine, and surely they would curse me all the way through the process. Discarding the silly “famous” part, I envisioned anyone suffering through my personal voice recordings, and decided to throw them into the trash long ago.... too scary! I don’t know how this differs so much from the written word, but it does seem to have a powerful presence.

Anyway, this kind of gathering of my personal thoughts pulled me into such a revealing and yet, soothing direction. I finally realized it was my form of what they call “meditation”, or at least close enough…. something I thought I could not really achieve. Well not so much in the traditional sense - lying on a Yoga mat to relax in the comfort of a quite room. This idea is most soothing, but for me, not easily accomplished. The so-called “meditative state” always seemed to elude me. I was either trying too hard, or just had too much activity in the brain, unable to really reach this level of total, relaxing bliss.

Something about the distraction of a physical workout seems to help me reach this state. It is a key realization about exercise in general – that it really can put one into a reflective level coinciding with the “higher self”. At least this is true for me, and I believe this is why many people may have trouble exercising habitually in the first place. They see it as a difficult, physical struggle to overcome, and it quickly becomes work instead of pleasure... a certain formula to abandon any good workout plan!

Most would probably think of yoga for this level of being, and indeed, I have found myself lost in those beneficial poses. But, to be able to journal my thoughts while folding up like a pretzel has not been achieved. Yoga is not about wondering thoughts, but more about losing any thought as you are focused on your body’s language. You get a break from all the constant noise in your head, along with the benefit of a very good workout - another entirely different state of being, and quite necessary.

However, when I am out there moving along on my bike at a good pace, wind in my face (sometimes very resistant wind), I can completely lose myself in random thoughts. I am drawn to the water with all of its life, which seems to have a soft affect on my impulsive and hungry Spirit.

I am seeing that although I love getting on the bike and feeling my muscles work and tone, it is not the main attraction to this purpose. It can only be secondary to the reconnection I am making with myself... those beautiful thoughts that enter and help me to further connect... to our Mother Earth, the warm sun, the dazzling birds, slippery water turtles, silvery fish, enchanting dragon flies, spontaneous butterflies - even those hot, panting dogs on a leash - God, the Universe... all of life... a blissful, aligning reunion!

Call it exercise if you wish, I could not go out there to bike, or to do any other physical repetition without the promise of this interaction... this connection that literally pulls me in and saturates my being with such primal pleasure.

Ultimately, this makes me very happy, and, as we all know, a happy artist makes for a more productive artist... or at least a kinder one.

What causes someone to put off the thing they love doing/creating the most? Perplexing. And, when I finally “do it”, I am completely satiated with a primal fulfillment, and a renewed sense of the anticipation to continue the journey. I am talking about painting... as in “Art”.

Most of my youth, it was certain that each day I would create some sort of drawing or painting, however unskilled they may have been. It was an ingrained part of me - like breath, itself.

In college I was a ball of energy, arriving to the tiny school studio (a turn-of-the-century home, converted to school property) at 6 a.m. to begin my long morning of painting... jazz running loud in the background from another co-nut-fellow-student in the adjoining, small room. It was my mantra, or perhaps mania - fully encouraged by the various idiosyncratic professors I had the privilege to learn from at this time.

But alas, life happens, and young people who think they are in love go astray. Without getting into the boring details of these somewhat ridiculous but necessary romantic adventures (God, I was so uncomfortable with the opposite sex) I will say that there were also other outside forces taking place. Actually, it was these forces that happened first... such as my college closing down because a neighboring school had recently experienced terrible disaster... those students who were shot at Kent State.

Okay, I promise not to delve into this era of our country’s political turmoil, but this was the beginning of a period in my life that began to see a slow down in my creative process. Yes, this was a long time ago, and I know that I have totally dated myself here, but I think this is somehow relevant to my current status.

When the school closed for 6 weeks, many, and obviously myself, went into other directions. I thought, at least I have 2 years of college under my belt... I think I should look for a job and make some real money. No more of this struggling art student stuff! And, without much delay, I found a decent paying job as a design and layout artist for the packaging of products ... wow, this was the ticket! Sure... as it totally sucked the creative juices right out of my vacant artist’s skull! Good thing my heart was in a different place.

A year and a half later, I quit the fat-butt job (like I knew what a fat butt really was back then) and decided to return to school. But my rather comical and slightly sad habit of smoking marijuana morning, noon and night had other plans for me. Also, it didn’t help that my boss would take us out for lunch accompanied with a nice, fat doobie every day... whoa, those small logos were always more fun to paint in the afternoon!

After nearly failing several classes for lack of even showing up, I dropped out. Dropped out! Words that haunted me as they echoed inside my clueless head for years... maybe even still. And then the onslaught of pointless other jobs that only added to the demeaning experience of being a lowly artist... which was looked upon in any office environment as something close to a naked circus performer, or maybe a vagrant garbage collector who eats dirt! I guess going braless was not helping this fine image of mine, either. Most the women I worked around, except for a few close to my age, were certain I slept with a different guy every night. Oh, the rumors.

Old patterns tend to follow us... or, actually, we carry them with us until we face why they are there, if we even take the time to recognize them in the first place. Then we can really say good-bye, and move on. I had many more years and multiple experiences to contemplate the idea that I was failing to realize my dreams. Hell, I am pretty sure I invented self-sabotage, throwing obstacles in my path, one after another. I believe it is usually called procrastination... such an ugly and all too common state of being.

Somehow, I always continued to paint, but never with the frenzy I was once so tightly connected. My focus was more on my social life, and after a several relationships gone to Never Never Land, I found myself thinking marriage. A few years later, two small boys and an inevitable divorce, I took on the task of single parenting with all that I could muster.

No glory in this new status, often working two jobs left very little time for much else. Being a mother was most important to me, although, I not only managed to paint, but even put on a couple of solo shows in some local restaurants. For the life of me, I cannot remember how I found the time to do so.

I worked in multiple restaurants (two years of college), juggling hours so that I could arrange some valuable time with my sons. I was also an aerobic instructor, jumping to hard-wired exercise that only the 80’s could understand... along with those goofy, skimpy outfits with flesh-pink tights and orange leg warmers. Bar-tending was another hat I wore... a rather dreadful experience that did not allow escape from older drunken, rude and horny men... and these were family restaurants!

So, why all this background noise? Well, as I look at my track record, I have become aware of some very valuable, and often humorous realizations. One - I do believe that I came into this earthly existence to be an artist, without question. I needed to literally learn the value of creation, and how it can effect and help others... as well as myself. Two - I needed to “see” what is in front of me, as well as what is “inside” of me... a kind of spiritual embracing of universal truth. The capabilities are limitless, even though this concept has recently “sunk-in” to my trail of thinking. Three - it is never too late! Never! Wow, it is the holy trinity!

I have placed myself around very productive artists, keeping in mind that guilt is not a factor, as I quiet my inner critic. I do not compare myself to what others say or do, but I do learn how to grasp ideas from the way others accomplish their goals. It is about the influence of this kind of active pursuit that gives me the flame I need to help brighten my sense of purpose.

With all that I have come to understand, there should be no fear of failing or “making it”. There should be no worry about criticism, and no regrets for what it takes to learn, as I reach to achieve my goals.... all inclusive of being the artist that I am.

My studio is welcoming me with open arms.

It’s not art, but it was extremely satisfying to have made it anyway…. my new composter. It is the first year since the late 80’s that I have attempted to grow a vegetable garden. I am kind of ashamed of this, but sometimes life takes us in other directions for awhile.... a long while. I have grown flowers, trees and bushes, but nothing edible.... well, maybe a few herbs here and there. My green thumb has been aching to show its face.

Right now, everything is growing in pots… some mid-size and some much larger. It’s not very pretty, and I am not really sure how successful this type of container gardening will be, but I needed to do something simple and quick, as I did get a late start for our growing season. It just gets too hot here, too soon. Although, we have had a very decent Spring... still cool in the evenings and usually staying below 80 during the days.

I spent some time researching different types of composters and decided to use a plastic barrel. I found a local place that makes salsa (which is a whole other story ) and also sells used, food-grade 55 gallon barrels for $30 each. They are the perfect size for the task of turning garden waste into nutrient- rich soil.

It is amazing just how much we throw away from our kitchens that can also add to this varied, lush mix, not to mention the benefits of reducing waste in our landfills. Just about anything veggie, tea and coffee grounds, egg shells, and even newspaper will do, as long as there is a general balance in what is added – definitely no meat or dairy. Having four carnivores in my back yard means I cannot use backyard waste - a big no no for any edible garden composting.

At first I thought I would just put some holes in the barrel, and open the lid every time I needed to add something to the mix. I wanted to do the easiest thing, so I planned to just roll it around on the ground to stir up the mix when needed. But the lid had a clamp which was a bitch to take off and put on, and without the clamp, the lid popped off whenever I put the barrel on its side for mixing. So much for the easiest idea.

In my research efforts, I saw some barrels that had a door cut from their side, and liked this approach. I already had scrap wood for the base, and a piece of conduit pipe that would do nicely as the center brace. I went to buy some hinges and fasteners for the door, and in a very short time, it was done!

It’s alive! This morning I threw in old carrots, even older spinach, peelings from a beet and a potato, leftover leaves from last night’s steamed artichoke, and stems from a bunch of kale. It used to bug me that so much food went to waste, but now it feels so different when something spoils in my refrigerator. Let’s face it, who doesn’t have something in their fridge that is too old to eat? Well, now I can let the microbes in my composter take care of this… no more total waste!

Any decent gardener will tell you how important a good compost is. My intention is to start a better process for growing our food by late summer or early fall. I will probably do a fairly new method, at least for me – Square Foot Gardening. After reading the book, ‘Square Foot Gardening’ by Mel Bartholomew, I am convinced this is the way to go for vegetable gardening, but for now the container experiment is on.

I was thinking about how things come to us as we go about our day... odd things, that we may even forget about a moment later. Maybe just a person walking by that had an unusual look, or a faint, floral smell that wafts through our car window.

I lay in bed the other night thinking about some people I have encountered recently, and how they have left some kind of impression. Maybe this is an artist’s mind at work, but I began to feel the need to perpetuate their existence by writing this post.

Uncomfortable

I stood in line at my local Post Office a few weeks ago, and as usual, there were only two workers serving the many people who came in. A couple stood in front of me... well, I say “stood”, but it was more like they “undulated”. I have never seen someone cling to another with such neediness... kind of creeped me out, honestly.

They were young, restless, slightly tattooed (what I could see) and of Hispanic origin. Shiny, chain-like filaments hung on various parts of their tight, black clothing. She was quite a bit smaller than him, which is one reason I found it hard to not stare at his grabbing, grouping, pinching, biting and overall smothering he preformed upon her small body. Oh yeah, there was an occasional smacking kiss on the side of her head, followed by a bite on her cheek.

The surprise is that she seemed to dig it, although I felt a kind of discomfort by osmosis every time he completely enveloped her. She would place her small, thin arm around his waste and pinch his bare-inch of fat, and he would give her a pat on the head... kind of like one does when petting a large dog, but harder. I would look away as they turned to see if anyone was noticing their performance. When I was finally able to walk outside again into the fresh Spring air, I had a renewed sense of freedom.

Fond

A few days ago, I decided to go to the Fiesta in my neighborhood. This is always a treat, as I usually feel like I have transported to some noisy part of Mexico. This store is not only large, it is like a mother ship to all the tiny stores attached to its front – like a big flea market. On Sundays they often have live music, which attracts such ethnicity from south of the border - I love the overall visual experience! I have to be careful not to stare so much as I feel like I am stalking these perfect faces for the subject matter I usually paint.

As I walked by the roasted corn stand, a rather thin, older Latin man walked across my path as he made his way to the parking lot. My eyes went right down to his aged shoes. I wish I could have snapped a picture. They were painted brown and white, as if they have been taken care of in this way for many years. They really matched his over-all look, as he seemed to step right out of a 1940’s photo album. In a fleeting moment, those shoes brought on all kinds of memories and feelings, and I flashed on my youth - my father. Although I do not remember him having two-toned shoes, I knew they were from his era. I believe they were called ‘Saddle Shoes’, which we also wore in the 50’s with those large, flouncy skirts. Well, I know my older sister did this, but I was such a Tom-boy, this look never suited me.
Those shoes though... for some reason, it really felt good to see them.

It is the sweetness of a new leaf just emerging from a seemingly lifeless branch, its tender shades of greens hinting of pale pinks and violets ... those first fresh signs of Spring. Soft rains deeply soak, awakening all underground, and cleansing all above.

There are many signs that arise. Birds start a song and dance ritual that changes the entire mood of the outdoors. I often go trance-like when their ethereal songs stream in, as they seem to come from some higher source. I think these songs rouse something within all who hear them. Squirrels play in fast motion, moving from one large tree to another in what looks like a risky, high-wire circus act. I often wonder where they have been all winter... huddling somewhere in those bare trees, no doubt.

At this time of year, I must step gently across the surface of my backyard, which consists of a lot of mud, sparse patches of grass, weeds and those ever-popular piles neatly left behind by our four dogs. I have a thing going with the bird feeder, which sits in a area that trails past one of the dog’s favorite spots. It gets tricky keeping it full, but it is oh-so-worth the effort.

Sitting in my office, I watch them. They often come in groups and/or pairs. Usually a squirrel is hanging up side down while another one is on the ground... they seem to watch each other’s back. The one in the tree has a unique approach to get to those seeds. I worry that my one dog, who seems to always be “switched on” hunting mode, might be quick enough with a surprise attack if he loses his grip.

Sometimes a beautiful pair of Cardinals arrive, or some Blue Jays, but there are usually a few doves along with those little Sparrows, which manifest in social groups. Their chatter is melodious and often seems synchronized. Occasionally I get a rare treat... some Rosy Finches or some other unusual species of Finch, but in truth, I do not spend that much time at this window.

There is also this strong urge to get my hands dirty - to grow a garden. I have been lapse in starting the process which should have begun a month ago, as our climate warms up much too fast for some things to do well if you wait too long to get them into the ground – mostly tomatoes. With all else I am doing, I am thinking I will probably just start a compost and build a small fence to keep critters out - my dog critters, actually. A garden should be done in small steps if you haven’t done it in years. I am okay with this idea.

Like all life around us, I am also feeling the need to bring forth new growth, and as an artist, creating more in my studio is a good place to start.

Thank you Goddess of Spring for gracing us, once again... we welcome your gift of primal energy and new life!

This all started a couple of years ago. I had planed to somehow get more natural light into my studio, and as any artist will tell you, this could be most beneficial, but first I needed more room to move around – so we built a shed. That was a rather fun and enlightening adventure in itself, which I have also written about somewhere in this blog. There was such a sense of accomplishment when this project was finished, not to mention the gaining of much needed storage space. No more bicycles, generators, surplus wood, garden furniture and other miscellaneous items stuffed into this single-car garage turned into an artist’s workspace!

Then, there was this dingy, small window, that was not only a great place for spiders to make their home, but a complete dud for ventilation, as I was never able to open that flimsy, stuck aluminum frame. Oh, and it let in lots of unwanted heat in the summer, and cold in the wintertime ... nothing like a thin piece of glass for protection!

I played around with the idea of putting in a larger window or two, and perhaps adding a skylight to fill the room with even more ambient glow. I also thought about getting an all glass (frosted) garage door... wow, is that ever expensive! But in the end, the need for a separate entrance surfaced, making it clear that a pair of French doors just might be the perfect solution.

Having made the decision to have these doors installed meant that I would have to move that awkward, thin gate (another thing we could never open) and that small stretch of fence next to it. The fence needed to be built closer to the front of the house to leave room for the doors. I wanted a very useful and well-made gate and fence, and hired a company that cost a bit more, but I do think you get what you pay for. I had other quotes, but there was not such a difference in price, so going with this company was a good idea.

Thanks to a friend’s recommendation, I was able to contract a door specialist – Wayne Grate, ‘The Door Dude’, which is the name of his company. I would highly recommend this guy to anyone, as he was not only professional in every aspect of this procedure, he was detail oriented – all steps taken were done with precision. And, I believe his cost was not far from what others would have charged, but his craftsmanship was certainly top notch.

When he started to demo the wall with the tiny excuse for a window, we discovered that this window did not even have a header! No wonder I could not open it! My home was built in mid 1950’s, but don’t let that fool you into thinking everything was built better back then. Yes, I do have oak hardwood floors, and I think the rafters may even be made of cedar, but this window looked like something thrown in when no one was looking who might have cared.

I was happy to see “the door dude” pull out some 2”x 10”s, which he doubled up for the header of these new French doors. He started work at 10:30 a.m. and was finished with the entire process by 3 p.m. During this time, I worked outside on the roof of my home, just clearing away some branches and vines that had over-taken this side of my house. I did not know I had a living roof up there! There was soil and plants growing under the foliage that had been leaning on my roof for a few years... no wonder the roof leaks! Another huge, expensive project that will have to wait till later.... one of the many joys of owning a home.

The day the door went in was one of those unusual, glorious days we seldom have in this usually hot part of the Gulf Coast area. Even though it is our winter season, it was upper 60’s with clear blue skies, and a sweet, clean air! When Wayne had finished and left, I sat and stared at my new doors. I looked at the clean, crisp light fusing into my creative space, and how it fell upon the surface of the piece resting upon my easel. My face could not have had a bigger smile.

There is more to this project, but this is just another stage for now. I plan to build a small deck just outside the French doors, and redo the side for passage, with another small gate to keep my 4 dogs from overwhelming this area of refuge... yes, we think this will be a good spot for us to come outside and enjoy some peace and quiet. It is also a good place to bring guests into my studio... no dogs jumping on them with muddy paws. I need the Dog Whisperer.

Yesterday was semi-cloudy, but the door was wide open for ventilation, as it has been each day that the air is mild outside. How refreshing it is to have this flow of air and to hear the birds and wind chimes... so serene. I had just finished a piece, and later I began to construct a new board for the next. Even when it is cloudy and rainy outside, the light flowing in is enough to satisfy my need for natural light. I am thoroughly enjoying painting with ample daylight, and so happy to have made this choice for my studio, my art and my life.

I know we all have them. Memories that so willingly pop up at this time of year - some quite charming and cozy, and some that we wish would just go away.
Sometimes it is just the pace of life in general... when life becomes slightly weird and chaotic, crossing over that line of the absurd... like people nay-saying global warming, or the American healthcare system getting even worse – what?

Over all, there does seem to be a general melancholy during the Christmas season that heightens with all of this hype and hysteria to buy… something between frantic consumerism and the inability to fill a curious emptiness – not forgetting a thoroughly stressed budget.

While some may be going into hiding at this time of year, other seemingly, happy souls completely fall into ‘Christmaslandia’ - a kind of fantasy state with twinkling fairy lights lacing their heads and the view of everything they see. I think this is when extreme holiday decorating takes place... a ritual surrounding of oneself into this inventive vision... maybe a place that serves to give some form of needed escape... after all, who does not love Christmas lights?

This may not be such a bad place to be, and I am certain I have been there many times myself… especially through childhood. Of course, this was not without difficulties - too many expectations and plenty of disappointments. I am certain the first one led to the second in most cases… maybe all. And then there was loss.

I am not really going to belabor sad moments, I promise. Many of us have experienced extreme loss, and often this time of year brings these emptier moments of our lives into focus. It is hard for many of us to remember those we love who have passed without some sadness, and this is the time of year when family and friends hopefully gather and share their love… the true meaning of giving. Easy to see why we feel the emptiness when some of them are no longer here for us – with us.

I have also experienced such losses, but thought of one that recently made me smile with a joyous memory, even though many years have passed since. I was not particularly close to my aunt – my father’s older sister. She seemed a bit intimidating to me… kind of serious-quite and perhaps judgmental, but this was my young insecure mind’s perspective. She often traveled to far off places, bringing back the exotic and mysterious, which captured my interest a great deal. In all, she was always nice to me, just had a personality a bit sharp around the edges, and a little sad underneath. From the family rumors, stories and dysfunctions I recall, I believe she carried a lot of weight on her shoulders. I am sure it was not an easy life for her.

In spite of all she was and all she endured, her inner child easily grasped something fun and meaningful that she just had to share with this often-fragmented family – even our usual awkward differences seemed to move aside. Every Christmas she presented to us all a large, old box which had been pulled out from storage somewhere, just for this occasion... her coveted Treasure Chest!

All through the year she would buy the varied collection of dollar and two dollar items (imagine what a dollar could buy from mid 1950's to mid 60’s) to add to this assortment of goodies that everyone looked most forward to receiving. Who would think that such simple little items could completely capture us all in this fun game of chance, as she passed them out randomly to the eager group?

You may open your gift-wrap to find a pink shower cap, or a pair of men’s argyle socks. Maybe a nice retractable ballpoint pen, or a box of vibrant crayons. How about a wooden back scratcher... those that had a small hand attached to the end? Maybe a jar of martini olives, or a pair of women’s nylon stockings. Could be some child’s earmuffs under that wrapping, or a box of orange golf balls – the kind a serious golfer uses when shallow snow covers the ground (my beloved father).

This is when it really became absolute merrymaking! A furious trading took place, and it was most comic to see the faces beaming with excitement and laughter. The whole episode was quite contagious, to say the least. I should say that the laughter began as soon as each gift was opened, as the item often did not match the person opening it. Nothing was funnier than seeing a grown man opening a frilly shower cap, or a small child unwrapping a can of shaving cream!

Everyone dropped their differences in this child’s game. How wonderful this memory! She created this chest for us every year… for many years. Never tiring of doing this, it must have given her such joy to shape this fun event... to see our happy faces and hear our infectious laughter. It certainly has left a very fond memory for this particular member of this once large family. She has long been gone from this earthly plane, but she continues to bring joy to my heart as I remember a brief time each year when we all just enjoyed being together.

Thank you, Aunt Jane, wherever you are.

He stands alone
inside a carved niche
glowing in candlelight
seeming to move
with the dancing flames -
they glaze the gold-leaf
edging his fine clothing.

She dreams he will save her
waving his bold sword
the blade arcing moonlight
as it strikes a deadly blow
killing the heinous -
those that come in the night
when sleep tries to settle
a restless spirit.

His formidable wings
extend around
wrapping her form
in a silken sleeve.
She smells a sweetness
and hears familiar
breathing.

Sunlight streams in
to solicit her awake...
she sees
dripping melted wax
has hardened to his feet.

Don Julio fishes
on the shore
before his silent audience.
He speaks to them -
his protectors
their blank stares
glassy eyes
set open
or shut.
Some with empty sockets
pecked away
or fallen out
from rot.
A plastic leg
dangles
dripping rust above
discolors it
like a decrepit
blood-stained
wound.
Faded arms hang
bodies lacking appendages
even headless
drape the canopy
of sparse trees
with eerie fruit.
Dusk arrives
casting shadows
and a thousand or more
heads
seem to swivel up
their hollow skulls
waiting
for the ghost-girl
to come play.

Unseen. Invisible. Veiled and obscure. Hidden - out of sight. Something that is unable to be seen, even when it is right there just waiting for that glorious moment - when someone or something looks at it!

Sort of reminds me of the saying, “ If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound if no one is there to hear it?” Assuming that only humans matter, which is the other issue this question brings to the surface – the kind of shallow thinking that makes invisible all of those animals, plants and insects who occupy this same forest. Every living creature that exists in this natural habitat is quite capable of experiencing the tree falling, and the surrounding forest with all its’ other earthly sounds, smells and visual displays.

Without getting too far into the short comings of human thinking, my real point in this posting has to do with my inability to expose my art to a wider audience – perhaps this is getting back to that “human thinking” aspect, and in this case, my lack of it.

If art hangs in a gallery, does it get seen if no one comes to look? I think the answer to this question is obvious (critters aside, and there could be and probably are a few roaming the floors of the gallery in the night).

I should clear this up be saying that many did come to view this show, and for this I am most grateful. The opening reception had a healthy turnout, with what seemed to be some very positive responses, as well as a few sales. What artist would not be pleased with this kind of outcome?

But, I think I am aware that what I am trying to communicate through my art needs a different kind of exposure... maybe even the kind of audience that does not normally go to art galleries. Definitely this is not something I can target too easily, but getting the news out to a larger group would be the best way to avoid having to choose.

I believe I have not really “come up to the plate” to complete the steps necessary to make this actually happen. I have been dragging my feet a bit, actually feeling like they have been stuck in some heavy, Texas mud – not hard to come by in this neck of the woods.

Many have said that it was the “Mercury in retrograde” dilemma, which apparently just ended on the 29th of September. This planetary alignment that usually lasts a few weeks, seems to play havoc with communication (lack of press releases) and connection in general – often leaving us feeling out of it and just plain misunderstood. This could explain my odd, postpartum-like blues. Also, the show comes down tomorrow.

Well, I am all for looking at any aspect that may hinder or help the energy around me, but in truth, this is about my inactivity to promote this show. This kind of feels like a public spanking, but I believe in writing about my truth, as it becomes a viable way to learn, heal and grow... possibly for others as well. Ah yes, such are these purposeful struggles that come our way in life.
Opportunity follows struggle. It follows effort. It follows hard work. It doesn't come before ~ Shelby Steele.

There are people out there that could find my art to be a healing experience... perhaps just leaving them with a warm feeling that they cannot really explain. Maybe some would find it slightly altering ... catching them off-guard and perhaps pushing them to an edge they didn’t really know was there. Others may just find what I do offensive, but maybe they cannot stop thinking about it and wonder why. I would hope that “offensive” doesn’t happen too often, and maybe just “not moved” would be the better result of the two. I always prefer the “feel good” response.

I think each artist ideally creates what makes their sense of purpose seem justifiable. It actually took me years to understand why I was driven to paint what I feel. I mean, getting past the benefits of the child-like quality of playing with paint or other media, why, in this lifetime, am I an artist? What human being does not wonder or question their real sense of purpose – why are we here now and what are we to fulfill?

So, in retrospect, why would I not give my all to this purpose, including a zillion sent out press releases, photos, announcements, invitations and all else needed to get the news out there? “This is your baby”... as I heard a respected art critic/journalist once remind her entire artist audience, “ and presenting it should be done with great care... and a lot of love.”
I feel much better now... ready for the next time.

It had not crossed my mind until just recently to take photos of some of my work in progress. Someone asked me if I do this, after we both heard another artist speak to a group about documenting the progress of his work. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to do this before, but it did seem like a good idea. Someone may be interested in seeing this. I kind of liked seeing this, myself.

I was not good at stopping the process of painting to take another photo at each turning point or change, but there is a steady stream from my recent work, with two stages – more like “before and after” photos. I think this is enough to convey what some of the creative process entails, even if it’s just a sketch on the board before any paint is applied.

As I ready for this new exhibition, I thought I would place a few of these progression photos on my blog. I can only say that with most of these new paintings, I always start with a sketched idea on paper before I re-establish a new sketch on the board itself. I work on the sketch for nearly a day – sometimes longer, trying to sum up all areas of that blank surface with what I intend to paint. This can change, of course, but usually after giving enough thought to this stage, it glides fairly well.

This is a two-person show, with my partner in crime - Tom Irven, who is a fine wood sculptor, to say the least. His beautiful shapes and finishes almost always allow the natural wood grain to come through any stain he applies. This so intrigued me, that I wanted to do a similar thing with some of my work, as I always paint on wood. I did a few paintings that give the wood a chance to show its’ warm-grained face, interacting with the subject matter that I paint onto the surface. It really felt good to do this.

The show, Transforming Spirit, opens Saturday, September 5th at Archway Gallery, 2305 Dunlavy, Houston, Texas. It will be on display till October 1st, 2009.

Ok... sometimes it takes me a while to finally see what is going on around me. I noticed something different about the nature of things near our home. I thought it was more about the drought than anything else, but there seemed to be fewer birds in and around our yard. Actually, almost no birds, is more like it... except for these bigger versions that are part of the raptor family.

I saw my neighbor in the early evening with his puppy Chihuahua in his front yard, and decided to mention to him to carefully watch over his puppy, as there is this hawk family living in the area. He said he thought they were Peregrine Falcons, and that he has lots of pictures of them already! I told him that I thought these birds where too big to be falcons, but then he said they looked them up and they are the right size. Hmmmm.

I promptly went into my home to check this out, and he was absolutely correct... about 16 to 20 inches long, and the pictures coming up on Google were mostly matching what I have been seeing. As I looked further into the habits of this fast flying bird, it was also clear to me what their favorite food is ... other birds! My stomach felt a small knot develop, even though I find these birds most captivating, I was made aware that all those beautiful birds I loved so much, have either flown the coop or have become another bird’s fodder.

As my partner prepared to leave for his office that same evening, he opened the door and immediately summoned me to his side. I quickly walked over to find a large bird sitting on top of his car, just looking at us like we were as familiar to him as his parents. We walked out to see what would happen, but he still sat there, either unafraid, or just too naive to know that we could be a possible threat.

A moment later, he was on a small, low branch of the nearby Magnolia tree, and I walked toward him to see how close he would tolerate my presence... just a couple of feet, and he still looked at me like I was a curiosity, but more like the same interest a house cat might have as it grooms itself.

I have become attached to his visits, while his parents screech from above, and he answers with a the same high pitched call... so tender these communications. It was beginning to get dark, so I turned to go into the house, and he flew very low to the ground to a tree across the street.

I miss the other birds, and can only hope that most have just found another area to live. I miss the cooing of the Mourning Doves, the beautiful songs of the Mocking Birds, and even the screeching of the Blue Jays, who have learned to imitate their predators with these calls. The only sounds I hear are the constant cicadas buzzing away, and the calls of this marvelous falcon family, as they make this area their home.